


Prince with a Thousand Enemies

by DiscordantWords



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Glowing rabbits, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Post-Season/Series 03, References to drugs/possible past suicide attempt, Sherlock prompt challenge, Unhappy marriage, post-tab
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-22 17:57:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7448611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscordantWords/pseuds/DiscordantWords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a rabbit in the nursery. John isn't getting any texts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from _Watership Down._
> 
> For the July [Sherlock Prompt Challenge](http://sherlockpromptchallenge.tumblr.com/) (pets or animals).
> 
> This was meant to be short and light. It turned out anything but. Oops.

*

There was a rabbit blocking the door. 

It took John longer than it should have to realize this, laden down as he was with bags of groceries. He'd been looking down, trying not to trip over his own two feet. His keys were clenched between his teeth. 

He looked up, and found himself face-to-face with a rather ornate hutch, wedged into the entranceway, shoved up against the front door. The rabbit was inside the hutch, crouched on a thick blanket of straw, watching him. It was fat, white, flop-eared.

John stared at the rabbit.

Its nose twitched. 

"John?" Mary said, coming up behind him. She was not holding groceries. Even if one's wife was a former assassin more than capable of handling herself in a rather terrifying variety of situations, it wasn't the done thing to load a pregnant woman down with bags and expect her to drag them from car to house. 

Besides, she'd taken to keeping her gun in her purse. 

"Yeah—just—" he said, keys dropping from his mouth as he spoke. They fell in a jingling heap, just under the hutch. He swore, looked down at the bags in each of his hands, looked back at the rabbit. There was a gouge in the woodwork around the door, where the hutch had been carelessly forced into place. 

"Why is there—"

"I don't know!" His voice came out sharper than he'd intended. The rabbit tensed up. He stepped back, bumped against Mary who had stooped just slightly where she stood to get a better look at the obstacle. 

"I'd bend to get the keys," she said, looking back at him with a wry smile. "But it'd take me ages to stand back up." 

"Yeah," he said, flustered. "Yeah. I—right." He set the groceries down on the ground. The bags crinkled. 

He moved back towards the hutch, bent down to snatch his keys up off of the ground. The rabbit eyed him warily. 

The January air was cold, damp. The rabbit did not look particularly uncomfortable. It could not have been there for long. 

"What are you—" Mary started, as he got his arms around the back of the hutch. 

"Just—just hold on—" he grunted, tugging at it. The rabbit bolted for the other side of its enclosure as he tilted it, rattling the bars. He dragged the entire offending structure free of the doorway and straightened up, breathing hard. 

"I don't see a note," Mary said. She took the keys from him, unlocked the front door. She ran one index finger along the woodwork, made a small sound of dismay upon discovering the gouge. 

"Weird thing to leave on someone's doorstep." 

"Well," Mary said, touching her stomach. "Better than a baby in a bassinet, I suppose. I think we'll have our hands full with just the one." 

She went on into the house. He stepped away from the hutch, hefted the bags of groceries up off of the ground, followed her inside. He set the bags on the kitchen counter, rubbed at the creases the plastic handles had made in his palms. 

He went back out into the cold, stood regarding the rabbit. The hutch was two levels, wood, good quality. Heavy. It had a whimsically sloped roof that made it look sort of like a child's dollhouse, if a child kept rabbits instead of dolls. 

"You're not staying, so don't get any ideas," he said to the rabbit. "But you're likely to freeze to death if I leave you out here." 

It regarded him with steady, dark eyes. 

He hoisted the hutch again, grunting with the exertion, and managed to struggle the damn thing into the house. Little tufts of straw worked loose of the bars, floating towards the floor. 

"I'll just text Sherlock, then?" Mary asked, coming to stand next to him in the sitting room. She had her phone in hand. 

He clenched his fist, breathed, looked away from her and instead fixed his gaze back on their… problem. The hutch was large and out of place in the midst of the little room. 

It bugged him more than it should. Knowing they texted. Knowing that Mary sent snappy little messages to Sherlock, made little jokes. That he wrote back. It hadn't bugged him before. Before, he'd been happy about it, happy that they seemed to get on so well, if a little bemused by the whole thing. He hadn't thought he could have that. He hadn't dared to think it, that he could have Sherlock and a life that wasn't Sherlock, all at once.

It was different, now that he knew what he knew. And so it bugged him, the texts, the conversation. That she'd dare continue to be Sherlock's friend after killing him.

"Why?" John looked from the rabbit to Mary and back to the rabbit. He let out a quick, unamused laugh. "Not really his area of expertise, this." 

She made a sound, a sort of dubious snort, but did not say anything.

He scratched his head, bent to examine the hutch up close. It was fine craftsmanship, really. Expensive. The rabbit looked clean and healthy. A faint animal odour rose up from the bedding, not entirely unpleasant, though it could certainly grow overwhelming in a small space. 

He sat back on his heels. Sighed.

"It can't stay there," Mary said finally. 

"It's not staying," he said. "It just—"

"Put it in the nursery," she said. "For now."

He frowned. "But it's all—"

"John," Mary said, patient, calm. She made him feel like the irrational one, the one always on the brink of flying off the handle. "The baby's not here yet. At least it'll be—out of the way." 

"Right," he said, and set about dragging the heavy monstrosity down the hallway. He set it in their cheerily decorated little nursery, against the wall facing the empty crib. Tried not to think of the carpeting, the new bedding, the entire room taking on the general odour of a petting zoo. 

He'd spent an entire afternoon the previous week painting the walls a pale yellow. The air still smelled faintly of paint. It was a good smell. A domestic smell. A normal smell. The kind of smell one might expect to find in a happy little house with a happily married couple happily expecting their first child. 

"I'll just text Sherlock," Mary said again. She'd raised her voice slightly, calling down the hall from the sitting room. 

John moved towards the door, flipping the light back off, leaving the rabbit in the dark. "He's not going to—" 

_Care,_ he was going to say, because Sherlock would not care one whit about a rabbit. Rabbits were boring, rabbit-related mysteries were boring, and Sherlock certainly had better things to do than bother himself with tracking down the source of a rather unwieldy and unwelcome gift. 

He did not finish his sentence. As he flipped the light switch, the rabbit reacted by bathing the entire nursery in eerie green light. 

He shut his eyes, took a deep breath, counted to three. 

He flipped the light back on. 

Normal white rabbit, faintly alarmed. 

Light off. 

Decidedly abnormal green rabbit, luminescent, still faintly alarmed. 

"Right," he said. "Right. I'll text Sherlock." 

He came back down the hall, looked at Mary looking at her phone. 

"Already did," she said. "He thought it'd be a nice gift." 

"What?" 

"The rabbit." 

"Yeah—no—" John shook his head. She was smiling at him in that way she sometimes had, the I-know-something-you-don't way. He'd grown used to people looking at him with that face, but he'd never grown to like it. "You're trying to say that Sherlock gave us a glowing rabbit as a _gift?_ " 

"What do you mean, glowing?" 

He sighed, looked at his own phone. No messages.

"I'm going out," he said to Mary.

"We were just out."

"Well, now we need rabbit food. Apparently." 

"Well. You'd better hop to it, then."

"Yeah," he said, forcing a smile. "Yeah, I'll just—I'll be back soon. Yeah?"

"All right," she said, already moving down the hall towards the nursery. He watched as she stood in the doorway, flipped the light. For a moment, her startled face was bathed in a green glow. 

"Oh," she said. 

John shut the door quietly behind him. The cold winter air felt good on his face. 

*

He didn't knock on the door at 221B, just used his key and went right on up the stairs. Sherlock was seated in his chair, reading. He shut the book with a snap and looked up at John's entry. His movements were a little too quick, as though he'd been expecting the visit and had arranged himself thusly, a Sherlockian tableau.

"Ah," Sherlock said. "Mary mentioned you might be stopping by." 

He inclined his head towards his phone, balanced on the armrest. 

John breathed in, breathed out. He went over to his chair— _his chair,_ even though he hadn't called the flat home in years—sat down. 

"You're still wearing your coat," Sherlock pointed out.

John ignored him. He turned his head to look around the room, took in all of the familiar homey clutter. Most people would not consider books on crime and scattered bits of human remains familiar or homey. He wasn't quite sure what it said about him that he, for some reason, did.

"Been speaking with Dr Stapleton, then, have you?" John asked finally, turning his attention back to Sherlock. He was sitting up straight, eyes narrowed, hands tented under his chin. He was pale and sharp-angled and not at all familiar and homey and yet he was. He _was._

"Oh, this is about the rabbit," Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "I've been told it's… beneficial. For a child to have a pet. In their formative years." 

"She hasn't even been born yet, Sherlock, she's not getting any kind of benefit out of a—radioactive bunny rabbit." 

"Radioactive?" Sherlock looked supremely offended. "It's bioluminescence. Completely harmless. The introduction of genetic material from a jellyfish—"

"At least wait until she's walking and talking before you try involving her in one of your bloody experiments!" John shouted. He was shouting. Why was he shouting? Sherlock had not raised his voice. He thought of Mary, again, with her patient voice. He, always the one on the verge of losing control. 

He shut his mouth, gave Sherlock an apologetic look. Sherlock did not seem at all troubled by his outburst.

He looked back at the mobile, resting there on the armrest of Sherlock's chair. His own, in his pocket, conspicuously silent. Devoid of messages. 

"Just—no lab animals. In my house. Please." John thought it was a reasonable request. It seemed like a reasonable request.

Sherlock's offended expression had bled away, replaced by a much more familiar steady blankness. He blinked, just once. Nodded. "Of course, yes. I—my mistake. I'll have someone just—I'll send someone. To retrieve it. Sorry to have troubled you." 

John could only imagine what that would entail, because he was sure as shit that Sherlock Holmes hadn't carried the damn thing over by himself and wedged it in his doorway.

"Not Wiggins," he said, after a long moment. "Mary's still sore about Christmas." 

Sherlock breathed in, a quick tight inhalation, gave him a faint smile. "Understood." 

John hated that faint smile, hated the blank face underneath, those eyes that looked alert but had turned inward. Sherlock was drifting, drifting, farther away and harder to reach each time he glimpsed him from the shore. 

He shifted in his chair, suddenly uncomfortable. Sherlock's phone buzzed. 

"Mary wants you to pick up bread," he said, glancing at the display. 

John pulled his phone out of his pocket. No messages. 

"Why didn't she text me?" he asked, annoyed. 

Sherlock shrugged. "She knew you'd stop by." 

"She talks to you a lot." He said it in a huff, his hand clenched up into a fist against his thigh. 

Sherlock glanced up at that, a brief open flicker of _something_ on his face. His eyes wide. Startled. He blinked and composed himself. "She texts, I respond. That is what friends do, yes?"

"Friends," John said, and he knew he should shut up, there was no excuse for this, he hadn't been drinking, there's nothing he could blame this on but the slow creeping January cold that seemed to have settled itself into his very veins.

"Ye-es?" Sherlock looked confused now, his brows furrowed.

Sherlock, who was sitting in his chair in his flat on a cold January afternoon. Sherlock, who was not entrenched in some Eastern European hellhole, dying ostensibly for queen and country (but really for John, for John and Mary and their fledgling little family of lies.) 

His breath hissed out through his teeth. 

"Just—" he sighed, stood up. He was glad he hadn't removed his coat, glad he'd kept up the pretense of a short visit. "It's not a convenient time. For a pet. So." 

Sherlock didn't respond. Just watched him as he walked away. 

He went out of the flat feeling worse than he had when he'd arrived.

*

He didn't go home.

He stopped off at a pub, nursed a pint and stared blankly at the telly on the wall. He caught himself fiddling with his wedding ring, turning it over and over and over on his finger. 

"You look someone who wants to make a big mistake tonight," a pretty woman said to him, giving him a slow lazy smile. She settled onto the stool next to him, placed her hand over his, halting his relentless fidgeting. One red-painted fingernail tapped gently against his ring. 

He stood up in a hurry, pulled his hand away. "Sorry," he said. He smiled, although it was a painful thing and he thought he involved far too many teeth. "Sorry. I think I've made enough mistakes for a lifetime." 

He went back outside into the cold, startled when he realized it had gone dark. He held out his hand for a cab, resolutely did not look up at the stars. 

*

Mary was in bed when he got home, the house still and quiet. He went down the hall to the nursery, peered inside. 

The rabbit and its cumbersome hutch were gone. 

He leaned against the wall and looked around the room. The cheerful walls. The empty crib. The changing table. The little mobile, dangling from the ceiling. 

There was a faint trace of animal smell. Barely there. Maybe just his imagination. He'd open a window tomorrow. It would be like the whole thing had never happened. 

He used the loo, washed up, brushed his teeth. He avoided his own gaze in the mirror. 

_Mary's still sore about Christmas,_ he'd said. Jesus. She'd gotten off easy, hadn't she? Fell asleep and woke up with all of her problems solved. He was the one who still felt like a great raw nerve over the whole thing. 

He spit the last of his toothpaste into the sink, tried not to think about the faint smile that Sherlock had given him. There was a gunshot behind that smile, a gunshot and the whine of a jet engine and tense, forced lightness on a cold sunny day. Jesus. _Jesus._ If anyone at all should feel sore about Christmas, it was Sherlock. 

That bland smile was—it was the kind of thing that Sherlock did when his own thoughts distracted him, got the best of him. A generic expression thrown out onto the canvas of his face to make it seem like he was still involved in the conversation. The kind of expression that hinted at unfathomable depths just below the surface calm. 

He'd had some time to think about that, lately. Years ago, he would have said that Sherlock hid nothing. That part of his charm was that he said everything he was thinking, regardless of whether or not his thoughts were deemed acceptable in a social setting. But he'd have been wrong, saying that. He knew that, now. Sherlock hid parts of himself away all the time, guarded them fiercely, shielded them with clever distractions and misdirection. A magician waving one hand to keep your attention, picking your pocket with the other.

Or pulling a rabbit out of a hat.

He went back down the hall to the bedroom, slipped quietly under the covers. Mary did not stir. 

He listened to her breathing for a moment, paying careful attention to each rhythmic, even inhalation. He wondered if she might be faking it. He wondered at himself, on edge all the time, perpetually trying to catch her at a lie. Any lie. 

He looked at his mobile before setting it on the nightstand. Thought about texting Sherlock to thank him for handling the bunny issue so expediently. He could smooth things over. He'd like to smooth things over. He'd been unnecessarily sharp, edgy. Sherlock had been caught off guard. Sherlock was caught off guard a lot, these days. 

He shouldn't have joked about Christmas. There was nothing funny about it.

It hadn't been all that long ago, for all that it felt like a lifetime. Only a few weeks. 

He turned away from the phone without sending a text. 

*

He woke alone. Next to him, Mary's side of the bed had gone cold. 

He could not help the hot flush of guilt at how relieved that made him feel. He was capable of forcing a smile. But he was grateful when he didn't have to.

Immediately after discovering who she was, what she'd done, he'd been half blind with rage, bone-deep. The kind of rage that veiled his eyes and set his heart pounding and his teeth on edge. He could have walked away from her without looking back. _Would_ have, but for Sherlock. 

Funny, that. Sherlock, the great decrier of romance and sentiment, practically at death's door and yet defending the sanctity of his marriage with each pained breath.

He wasn't angry with Mary any longer. Not really. He was incapable of sustaining that kind of fury for any extended period of time. He'd have gone mad with it.

He could pretend. He wasn't an accomplished liar, but he had loved her, once. She was still that person, on some level. If he could just fake it long enough, he might be able to readjust to her amended presence in his life. Something might be salvageable. Eventually. 

_Forgive her,_ Sherlock had insisted in the face of his stony anger. Sherlock had gotten over it quickly, had gone right back to texting and conversing with her, had provided John with updates on Mary's wellbeing over the long months of his recovery. Accepting John's help to move from his bedroom to his chair in the sitting room, face pale and sweaty with the effort, each pained step drawing involuntary sounds of distress from the back of his throat. Settling into his chair and looking down at his phone, looking up at John with eyes that were tight with pain, ringed dark. _Having a scan today, John. She says she'll email you the results._ Sherlock, who seemed to accept his injury and reduced mobility without any particular rancor, as if it were something he'd deserved, as if understanding was tantamount to absolution. 

He'd been pretending since Christmas. His halting, tentative forgiveness had taken on a level of urgency, after Sherlock had done what he'd done. He'd thrown his life away for them, had done it without hesitation. He'd sized up the situation and the players and had deemed himself expendable. 

It—it hadn't seemed right to waste his sacrifice. John had redoubled his efforts. He'd spent the week between Christmas and New Year seeking her company where he had previously avoided her. He'd held her hand. He'd breathed in the familiar scent of Clair de la Lune and her shampoo and wished he could be a little more like Sherlock, that he could reach into his brain and delete things he didn't want to know. 

He'd gotten the call from Mycroft, telling him Sherlock was leaving. Being sent away. Exiled. A delayed execution of sorts. So he and Mary had bundled up in their winter coats and taken a car to a windy tarmac outside of London. She'd held his hand. 

Sherlock got on a plane and went away forever. Sherlock came right back home. 

Everything changed. Nothing changed. 

Sherlock, slouched in a comfortable leather seat in the cabin of the plane, bleary-eyed and high as a kite. He'd brushed off concern about a drug habit that may or may not have been a habit. His steps had been unsteady, but he'd walked off of the plane under his own power. He went home. He got to work. He made no particular effort to either avoid or include John. He sent texts to Mary. 

They did not hear any more about Moriarty.

Mary had asked Sherlock his opinion on colours for the nursery. She'd sent him photos of the shades she was considering. He'd told her what to buy. She'd bought a gallon of pale yellow paint. John had dutifully painted the room. 

It was a nice colour. Pretty. Cheerful. 

Mary said it was nice, having a friend with a good eye for those sorts of things. Helpful. He'd been invaluable, picking colours and fabrics for the wedding, she'd said. John wondered if she'd spared a thought for the niceness of it all when she'd shot him. 

John was civil to Mary. She was civil back to him. She occasionally said something that made him laugh, and they'd share a smile, a warm glance. She was glib, amusing. It was one of her more endearing qualities. They went to the shops together. He carried the bags. She carried her gun. There was a certain level of comfortable domesticity to it all.

But.

Mostly, he looked at her and felt nothing. There was a dull throb where he thought anger should live, but no real heat to it. Instead, there was a muted fog creeping around the edges of his days, a slow sluggish lull that he had not felt since those terrible months immediately following his return from Afghanistan. 

He could have forgiven her the lies, eventually. He could forgive the double life, the terrible past, the moral choices that were dubious at best. He could have forgiven all of it, with enough time to process it, because that's what you did for people you loved. And god knew he wasn't perfect. He had blood on his hands. Rather a lot of it.

But he couldn't forgive her for Sherlock. Even if Sherlock himself had done so. 

It was past forgiveness, really, the casual way she'd almost discarded his life. More than once. And she'd done it _knowingly._ She'd seen what John had been in the aftermath of Sherlock's swan dive from the roof of Barts hospital, she'd seen him and she'd known him and she'd felt him and she'd still valued her secrets above his life. 

Sherlock, dead on the ground at Barts. Sherlock, most of the way to dead on the floor in Magnussen's building. Sherlock, dead on the table in the hospital. Sherlock, getting on that plane, as good as dead. Diminished, just a bit, each time. Less invincible legend, more human. Unsteady steps and shaking hands.

He could forgive her a thousand bad decisions, but not that one. 

He got out of bed, followed the smell of coffee down the hall to the kitchen. Mary was leaning against the counter, sipping from a mug. 

He put a smile on his face. She looked up, met him with a smile of her own. 

"Decaf," she said apologetically. 

He poured himself a mug anyway. Leaned against the counter next to her.

"No toast," she said, giving him a pointed look. "No bread."

"Sorry," he said. 

They regarded at each other for a moment. She looked tired, like she hadn't slept well. He supposed he looked much the same. 

"I see the rabbit's gone," he said. "That was fast." 

She nodded, set her empty mug down on the counter. "Sherlock sent someone over for it before you got home. He apologized for the inconvenience." 

John laughed without much humour. "I guess no one ever told him that pets don't make very good surprise gifts." 

"Particularly not pets liberated from classified research experiments," Mary said. 

"Well," John said. "It's Sherlock. I can't imagine him going for any other kind of pet, really." 

Mary made a noncommittal sound, gave him a level, appraising look. Her hand had come up to cradle her belly, fingers splayed out. Her ring caught in the light from the overhead, sparkling. 

There was something in her expression he was missing, he knew. Something he was meant to understand. There was always something he was missing. Always. The way he'd missed that there was an entire other person living in her skin, a person he'd never know. 

She smiled, and it wasn't a particularly pleasant smile. Though he supposed they didn't have much that was particularly pleasant to smile about, these days. 

He thought about the baby, then, and shut his eyes. They could be smiling about that. They should be smiling about that. 

He searched and searched for something to break the tension, found nothing. Mary washed her mug, put it away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter count has been increased to 3. I hope to have the final portion up in about a week or so.

*

He went straight to Baker Street after work, let himself in and tromped up the stairs, making a lot of noise, giving Sherlock ample warning that he was coming. 

He hadn't told Mary of his intentions, although she'd probably guessed. Probably smirked at the other nurses in the break room and said something like _oh, well, John's off to have a row about a bunny rabbit!_ She'd probably been amused by their bewildered responses, their exchanged glances, their polite laughter. He'd noticed a good deal of polite laughter around him and Mary these days. 

Sherlock was sitting in his chair, watching the door when he poked his head in. 

He looked from Sherlock to the fireplace, against which the rabbit hutch had been unceremoniously shoved. Inside, the rabbit crouched on its bedding, watching him with wary eyes and twitching nose. Outside, the sun was setting, the last of the weak daylight fading away. The flat was dimly lit, and the creature emitted a faint green glow. 

The angles of Sherlock's face were limned in green, making him look alien, otherworldly. 

"Now that's just creepy," John said. 

"Unloading a genetically modified rabbit is a bit more difficult than I'd anticipated," Sherlock said by means of greeting. "People seem to find the bioluminescence more off-putting than interesting." 

"Can't imagine why," John said, shaking his head. 

Sherlock shrugged, unconcerned. He didn't appear to have more to say on the subject.

"I didn't ask yesterday," John said, still lingering in the doorway, relieved that Sherlock did not seem particularly hung up on the tense words they'd exchanged the previous evening. "Did you go all the way back to Dartmoor for that?" 

"Of course not," Sherlock said, looking almost affronted at the idea.

John supposed it did seem a bit unlikely. He couldn't quite picture Sherlock making the long trip by himself. 

Sherlock seemed to realize that John was waiting for additional explanation and relented. "I've corresponded, on occasion, with Dr Stapleton. For matters relating to my work. She shared the basic premise of her research, and I may have—conducted an independent field test of one or two of her theories." 

John studied him for a moment, then sighed. "Molly's got a cage full of glowing rabbits down in her office now, doesn't she?" 

Sherlock's face was very carefully blank. He did not answer. Which was, in John's estimation, as good as answering. 

John sat down in his chair, made a contented sound at the way the worn cushions accepted him. He ran his fingers along the armrests. "Making any headway on the, ah, Moriarty thing?" 

"Some," Sherlock said. Cautious.

John looked up. "Yeah? Anything I can do?" 

Sherlock did not respond. He pinned John with a rather sharp stare, studied him. After a moment, he drew in a breath, looked away. "Not at the moment." 

John watched him, troubled. He could still see Sherlock, sluggish from his hastily administered cocktail of narcotics, blinking in the sun, staggering about like a newborn colt on unsteady long legs. Sherlock, his voice rapidfire, eager, Sherlock who had _figured it out_ , who knew _exactly_ what Moriarty was going to do next. His brain, racing ahead, heedless of its transport's distress. Self-inflicted distress, but distress nonetheless.

Sherlock, who'd retreated back to Baker Street and had, presumably, carried on working the case without making any particularly notable progress whatsoever. Who still found time to text Mary about colours for the bloody nursery. And, apparently, mess about with rabbits and genetics.

"All right," John said. "If you're stalled on that one, then maybe you could help me with a case of my own?" 

Sherlock whipped his head back around. "You? You have a case? What case?" 

John smiled at how easily he'd swallowed the bait. "Glowing rabbit. Left on my doorstep. For absolutely no reason. At least as far as I can tell."

Sherlock seemed to deflate into his chair. He looked over at the hutch, back at John. "You're being deliberately obtuse. Why? We've already discussed it. A poorly timed baby gift, an easy opportunity to dispose of an unnecessary test subject, take your pick. I've _apologized._ " 

"Yeah, no," John said. "You're dangling the obvious answer in front of my face without actually offering an explanation. Technically, you're not lying if you say nothing and let me draw my own conclusions." 

Sherlock gave him another of those long, considering looks. Then he sighed. "Sometimes the obvious answer is obvious because _it's the answer_ , John." 

"A rabbit," John said, speaking slowly, pleased to see Sherlock shift in his chair and take notice, watching him as though he were something dangerous, unpredictable. "And not just any rabbit, but a glowing rabbit. It's a weird gift, even for you." 

Sherlock shrugged, said nothing. He looked irritated, but there was an uncertainty behind the irritation. An act. A good one, but not good enough. 

"You've not seemed particularly fond of rabbits in the past. And. Considering that you tried to drug me, locked me in a laboratory and proceeded to terrorize me the last time we were in Dartmoor—which is also the first and only time we've encountered a glowing rabbit, as far as I can recall—I have a hard time buying this particular gift as a—let's call it a fond reminder of a previous case. Even if you were the type to do the whole 'fond reminder of a previous case' thing." 

"I didn't actually drug you," Sherlock said, petulant. 

"That is a technicality," John said briskly. "And also not the point of this conversation. You left a rabbit on my doorstep—"

"I didn't leave it there, I paid someone to do it." 

"You had a rabbit left on my doorstep," John amended without breaking stride. "A _glowing_ rabbit, for a reason. And I want to know why." 

"Fond reminder of a previous case," Sherlock said. "You said it yourself." 

"I've no real fond memories of Dartmoor. Or Baskerville." 

"Hence the rabbit presently residing in my sitting room instead of your daughter's nursery."

John shifted in his seat. He was losing control of the conversation, something that tended to happen a lot with Sherlock. He was the master of the last word, and if they continued on in this fashion he would almost certainly get what he wanted, which was clearly for John to drop his line of questioning entirely. 

Ordinarily, John wouldn't push it. 

But nothing about the past few weeks had been ordinary. Hell, nothing about the past few _months_ had been ordinary. He'd rounded a corner and found Sherlock unresponsive in a pool of his own blood. He'd tried to help, done all that he could, holding Sherlock's lifeblood in with his own hands and _fuck,_ it had been climate controlled air and expensive flooring instead of furnace-hot sunlight and sand, but he'd been on the battlefield again regardless, begging Sherlock to keep drawing breath. He'd glanced up, and his own reflection had stared down accusingly from Magnussen's wall of mirrors. And the whole world had tipped upside down, like he'd somehow switched places with himself, dropped into some backwards world where the people he'd once known behaved in unnatural and contrary ways.

So no. He wouldn't be dropping his line of questioning. Not this time.

"Kirsty Stapleton lost her rabbit," he said, adjusting his angle of attack. "Her glowing rabbit. It upset her enough to attempt to hire a consulting detective." 

"Bluebell," Sherlock said. He was watching John with a guarded, wary expression. "The rabbit's name was Bluebell. There's no need to recite the details, John, even if I had deleted the case, your blog really is more than sufficient. And if I'm to be completely honest, your verbal storytelling leaves much to be desired. Which, considering the poor quality of your _written_ storytelling, is actually fairly alarming." 

Considering Sherlock had gotten on a plane, dosed himself with enough morphine to take down a charging elephant, and proceeded to drift off into a drug-induced stupor whilst reading John's much-maligned written words, John felt comfortable enough ignoring the criticism. Although certainly not comfortable enough to joke about it. He didn't think he'd ever be comfortable joking about anything that brought Sherlock once more to the edge of death. 

He settled for ignoring. "Lucky for Kirsty Stapleton, there was a consulting detective bored enough to take the case." 

"I didn't take her case," Sherlock sighed. "It just happened to correspond—" 

"I know," John said, holding up his hand. "I was there. Remember?" 

"I couldn't exactly leave it _unsolved,_ " Sherlock said, as if the very thought was a personal affront. Well. To him, it probably was. "Not with the obvious answer _right there._ "

"And what was the obvious answer?" John asked, lowering his hand. His fingers twitched and he clenched his fist to stay them. 

"You know the answer, John. As you've just reminded me, _you were there._ " 

"Her mother had made a mistake with the rabbit," John said. "Took it back. Lied about it." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, a theatric, annoyed gesture. He let out an irritated huff of breath. His patience, tenuous at the best of times, would not last through much more of this. 

"So why did she lie?" John asked. He was suddenly certain that he was on the right track.

Sherlock breathed. He shut his eyes. His shoulders slumped. Defeated. _Caught._

"Sherlock." 

He shook his head, eyes still closed. Turned away. 

"You hate it when people get it wrong," John said. "Tell me I'm on the right track, at least?" 

"To be on the right track would imply that there is a track." His voice was quiet, a halfhearted protest at best. His pulse jumped in his throat, his skin at once greenish and shadowed.

John sighed, stood, stepped over so he was standing right in front of Sherlock. "You don't do anything without a reason." 

Sherlock lifted his head. His eyes were hard. "Dr Stapleton lied about what happened to Bluebell because she didn't want to hurt her daughter's precious _feelings._ " 

"And it only made it worse," John said. "Right? Not telling the truth? Not letting Kirsty… process what had happened?" 

A heavy silence fell between them. John looked at Sherlock. Sherlock looked at John.

"Mary meant to kill me," Sherlock said. He said it in the same matter-of-fact way he might announce that they were out of milk, or that a client had come begging at the door. 

The air went out of John's lungs. 

"That is what you've been obliquely hinting around, isn't it?" His voice had gone sharp, mocking, lips pulled back into an almost-sneer.

"I'm not the one doing the oblique hinting, Sherlock," John said, surprised he was able to find a voice at all. He clenched his hand, looked over at the rabbit in its hutch. Its glow seemed brighter, or perhaps the room had just grown darker. 

Sherlock stood in one quick motion, drawing himself up, _looming_ in the way he did when he wanted to appear threatening. When he wanted to deflect attention from himself. "Your wife meant to kill me. She didn't shoot me in the head. She should have." He pursed his lips, swallowed. There was anger in his voice, real anger, surprisingly raw. "But I'm her _friend._ So she wavered. Hesitated for a moment. Just a moment, but. She could have accepted my help or she could have killed me, but the moment she made her decision she should have stuck with it. She pulled her punch, failed to act in her own best interest. Sentiment makes people _weak._ " 

"You said—" John held up his hand in protest, breathed. His heart was pounding. His blood had gone cold in his veins. He'd known this, on some level. He'd always known this. Sherlock could blather on forever about surgical precision and buying time, but he was a doctor. He'd crouched on the floor, pressed a hand to that pulsing wound. He knew better. 

"I know what I said. But I make a living out of murder," Sherlock said. He was standing very still, gathered into himself. He did not stalk or pace or gesticulate. He looked down at John and barely seemed to breathe. "You think I don't know a fatal wound when I see one?" 

John broke. He seized Sherlock's arms, gripped them tight, shook him once, twice. Sherlock blinked, startled, a human reaction flickering to life amidst all of his carefully schooled stillness. "You don't have to tell me that," he hissed, fingers digging into Sherlock's forearms. "I was _there._ I was with you in Magnussen's office, I was with you in the ambulance, I was at the bloody hospital when you started to flatline. When you fucking _died._ Again." 

"Then there's no point in going through this again," Sherlock growled. 

"OBVIOUSLY, there is!" John shouted. He let go of Sherlock's arms, whirled back towards the rabbit hutch. The rabbit bolted for the other side of its enclosure, startled by his rapid movement, by his voice. "Because you keep trying to tell me something without, you know, ACTUALLY TELLING ME ANYTHING." 

"Fine," Sherlock said, his voice rising, his face like a stormcloud. "Your wife meant to kill me. She wanted me _dead._ I told you she shot me in the chest to save my life, but the only reason she didn't put a bullet between my eyes instead was because she felt _badly_ about it. She's a human being, John, subject to the same chemical and emotional disadvantages as the rest of us."

"Sherlock—" 

Sherlock's lip curled. He spoke right over John, spitting his words with an almost palpable disgust. "In any case, it didn't last long. She showed up at the hospital that night, ostensibly to finish the job, to _correct her mistake_ , but there were too many people around. She might have gotten the job done, but getting back out without being seen—far too risky. Even _you_ would have noticed eventually if she'd started shooting up the entire bloody surgical ward. So she settled for threatening me into silence instead." 

Sherlock had been so pale and weak in the aftermath of his surgery. He'd opened his eyes—wide, disoriented, frightened—and had whispered _Mary_ in a voice cracked and hoarse from the tubes and John had gone rigid with a roiling, nauseous mixture of jealousy and relief and bewilderment. 

Sherlock was breathing hard, his entire body coiled into a kind of furious tension that John couldn't recall ever seeing, even at his lowest point. "Your wife meant to kill me and I lied to you about why she did it. To shield your _feelings._ " 

"Why?" John yelled back. He wanted to throw something. Wanted to punch something. Instead he stood frozen, chest heaving. He had been holding Sherlock's hand, in the hospital, when he'd first woken up. He'd let it go, let it drop back down onto the scratchy hospital bedding when Sherlock had uttered Mary's name. Those long fingers had been so cold, almost bloodless.

"Because any threat she posed to me was neutralized as soon as you realized what she was. She wouldn't try to kill me again to keep her secret because there was no longer any secret to keep. And once you knew, she wasn't about to shoot me out of spite. Killing me then would only serve to anger you, thus rendering the whole thing moot. Even if she did it later, you'd always suspect. You'd always have your doubts." Sherlock spat the words out like the world's most distasteful deduction, lips curling. 

"Yes," John said, feeling his own lips curl upward into a dangerous smile. "Yeah, all right. We'll skip the part about how killing you would _anger_ me, Sherlock, because—" his voice broke and he grimaced, tightened his fist, started again. "Skipping that, for the moment. Why the subterfuge? You had her—you _had_ her. She had nowhere to go. You could have had her arrested. You could have—why would you—?" 

He had lost the thread of what he was trying to say, fumbling around in the dark for the words. The air in the house with the false front at Leinster Gardens had been damp, musty. He'd sat waiting in the shadows with his coat collar up and his hair mussed, watched as Sherlock carefully unraveled Mary's lies. He had been slow, and pained, and pale, and Mary had been so quick, like a viper in the dark. John had held his gun in his pocket, his finger on the trigger. It had felt unreal, dreamlike, something that was happening to someone else. And Sherlock, Sherlock had been bleeding internally, struggling, _laboring_ for every breath, but he'd laid out Mary's sins at their feet, had looked to John and begged forgiveness on her behalf. 

Sherlock stood with his head cocked, the unnatural display of anger bleeding away from his face at John's fumbled words. His face creased, little furrows of confusion at his brow. He held himself stiffly, his shoulders tensed. He held himself stiffly all the time, these days. Since he'd come back from—well—wherever he'd been. Somewhere along the line he'd lost the laconic, languid movements John had associated with him during the time they'd lived together. He still sulked and pouted and paced, but whenever he flung himself around on the sofa there was an awareness to him now, a consciousness of his own body that he'd never seemed to have before. He was always nervous, twitching, wired up under a misleading cloak of calm; a wild rabbit frozen in the sweep of headlights, ready to bolt.

"What are you talking about? Why would I have her arrested? What purpose would that serve?" 

"Oh, I don't know," John said, rolling his eyes. "Getting a murderer off the streets?" 

"But she's your wife." The words came out slow, bewildered. 

"Yeah, pretty clear on that one, thanks." 

"The person you married," Sherlock said, shaking his head. "The person you chose to spend your life with. You—" 

"Yeah, Sherlock, look, I was there for that too." John shut his eyes, tipped his head back. "And even if I didn't remember, I've got a whole wedding album of pictures to prove it. Very nice pictures, actually, even if they were taken by a murderer." He laughed, the sound brittle. 

"You've no idea how difficult it was to liberate that camera from evidence," Sherlock said.

"Not changing the subject right now." 

"You're the one who brought up the photographs." 

"And now I'm telling you to drop it!" He was shouting again. He looked around the room, scanning the bookshelves, kept his face turned away, looking anywhere but at Sherlock. "You could have—Christ, Sherlock, you could have ended all of this right then and there and instead you—instead you spent _months_ convincing me to forgive her and then went and SHOT someone to—to trap me into—" 

Sherlock winced. "Shooting Magnussen was the only available solution—" 

"NO, Sherlock, the solution was right there when you looked me in the eye and lied about Mary's motivations!" 

Sherlock shook his head, frustrated, confused. The anger had gone out of his body, leaving him looking human, damaged, almost frail. He went towards the window, picked up his violin, set it back down again without playing a note. He turned back. "Trap. You said I was trying to trap you. I. I don't—" 

"What would you call it, if not a trap?" John breathed out heavily through his nose. His head had begun to throb. "One word, Sherlock, and you could have removed her from the situation entirely. One word." 

Sherlock had come back from the dead and he'd sat across from him in a dingy café, furious and humiliated and hurt. _One word,_ he'd hissed, wanting nothing more than to bloody Sherlock's nose, to punch the smug smirk off of his lips. He'd missed him, and he'd wanted him back, and in that moment he'd _hated_ him for leaving him behind in the first place. He had been left behind again, now, all of his decisions made for him, the gift of a lovely, perfect life all tied up in a bow and laid at his feet.

All this time. Months upon months, trying to find a way through it, a way past it all. His mind, his rationalizations, all of the reasons for staying by Mary's side warring with his instinctive desire to flinch away whenever she moved too close. Hating himself for hating her smiles, for his immediate mistrust of her words. Hating the way that he no longer found her charming or amusing whenever she did something that would have charmed and amused him before. 

"That's something you—you would have wanted that?" There was something terribly halting and uncertain in Sherlock's voice, and it stopped John in his tracks. 

"What are you even talking about?" John asked finally, looking at Sherlock, really looking at him. 

"You married Mary, you—you wanted—" Sherlock scowled, clearly frustrated with his own ineloquence. He shook his head. "I. When I spoke—at your wedding—I said I would do whatever it took. You were happy. You were—I wanted that, for you. No matter what. And then she—well." His hand slid to his chest, rubbed faintly over the place where she had put a hole. "It was understandable, really. I would do anything to keep you happy. She would do anything to keep you. Granted, sorting it all out was a bit unpleasant, but we managed to find common ground. In the end." 

"Sherlock," he took a step forward, then another, hand held out as though approaching a skittish horse. _I would do anything to keep you happy_ , he had said. Oh, God. "What are you trying to—"

"She makes you happy," Sherlock said. "But you had to know the truth, too. And she—she would have killed me to keep it from you. And that would—that would have grieved you as well. So I—I removed her impetus for taking that step. You got the truth. I gained a measure of protection. She's not overly spiteful, John, she's a professional. She wouldn't have killed me once she had nothing to gain and everything to lose by doing so." 

"All of this makes sense," John said, still inching forward. "In a weird way. In. Well. In your kind of way. But that still doesn't explain why you pushed the—the whole forgiveness thing." 

But it did, he thought. Oh, God, it did explain it. _I would do anything to keep you happy._

"She makes you happy," Sherlock said again, with an air of finality, as if it could possibly be that simple. "You're having a child together. You—I just. I arranged it so that nothing had to change." 

John shut his eyes. His breath whistled out through his nose. Sherlock's voice had gone faint, distant. His ears were ringing. He tipped forward, put his hands on his knees. He wanted to grab Sherlock by the shoulders, shake him. Wanted to look him in the eye and shout: _is this what happy looks like to you?_

After a moment, feeling slightly calmer, he lifted his head. Sherlock was still standing in front of him, all frozen up and wide-eyed, a wild creature caught between the desire to fight or flee. 

"Was that—" Sherlock asked, voice slow, hesitant. "Was that wrong?" 

John blew out a harsh laughing breath, shook his head, helpless. His eyes were stinging. "Yes. No. Christ, you are the only person on the planet who could _possibly_ think that makes any sense." 

"Trapped," Sherlock said quietly. He looked down at his hands, frowned. "Trapped. I didn't mean for—that was never my intention. It hadn't occurred to me, that you might see it that way."

"Sherlock," John said.

Sherlock did not respond, just went on looking thoughtfully down at his hands, as if seeing them for the first time. 

"Sherlock," John said again, louder this time. 

Sherlock lifted his head. There was no discernible expression on his face, not so much as a twitch of an eyelid to give him away. He had gone utterly, terrifyingly blank. "You're angry with me." He spoke in a flat voice. It was not a question. 

"No," John said. "I'm not. I'm not angry at you. I'm—I'm angry at her." 

And he was. Oh, Christ, was he angry. It was as if Sherlock's words had ripped the bandage from a partially healed wound, tearing away the scab and pulling apart the mending flesh. 

Sherlock blinked. That was clearly not the response he'd been expecting. He opened his mouth, shut it. Tucked in his chin. Drew a breath, opened his mouth again.

"So help me God," John said. "If you have to ask me _why_ , you're not half the genius you think you are." 

Sherlock shut his mouth. Blinked again. 

"I am very happy that you're not dead," John said. His ears were ringing. He felt raw, flayed open, exposed. "I don't know if I've ever said that to you, out loud. But I am. And I'd prefer you stay that way. Alive. Not dead. Not—not falling from rooftops, or shot, or executed, or—or choking on your own vomit in a bloody doss house. Just—just so we're clear. All right?" 

Sherlock stared, _stared._ He nodded his head slowly. 

"And anything—any _one_ who would—who would try to—" John broke off, his voice uneven, his breath rasping. "I would have done things differently, if I'd had all the facts. Yeah?" 

Another slow nod. Wide eyes.

John nodded back, a quick jerk of his head. "Good." He turned, picked up his coat. 

"Where are you going?" Sherlock sounded almost alarmed. The life had come flooding back into his face as though he'd flipped a switch. 

Leinster Gardens, dark and damp. Mary in the hallway, her familiar perfume warring with the stench of mold and decay and rotted, peeling wallpaper. She'd thrown a coin in the air, put a hole in it. But there had been a moment, a split-second, really, where she'd looked down at him, swaddled in shadows with his coat collar up and his hair mussed, and had considered putting a hole in him instead. 

His ears were ringing. He could feel his pulse thudding in his temples. He had listened to Mary, there in the damp dark, her voice at once familiar and foreign, cold and so very hard. It had not felt real. She had meant for Sherlock to die. She had wanted to stop his heart to shut his mouth. His reasons for ever believing otherwise suddenly felt flimsy, insubstantial. How had he ever thought it enough to cling to, to rebuild on? 

"I can't—this is a lot to process, Sherlock," he said, and his voice shook only a little bit. Whether with anger or relief or something else entirely, he wasn't quite sure. "I just need to—" 

He thought again of Magnussen's mirrors, of the world turned on its head, Sherlock's crumpled form reflected and multiplied on the walls. John with him, crouched small and ineffectual at the side of the one person he never seemed able to save. 

The rising panic choked off his words and he shook his head, held up his hand as Sherlock stepped towards him. There was a look on Sherlock's face unlike any he'd ever seen before. He couldn't think clearly enough to try to parse out what it might possibly mean. He was too hot, too cold, nauseated, _furious_. He whirled towards the door and was through it, pounding down the stairs and out into the street. 

Sherlock called something after him. He kept his head down, pretended he hadn't heard. 

*

He was not particularly inclined to go home. 

His blood was singing in his veins, his heart pounding, the world vivid and sharp-edged. The rage that coursed through him was freeing, in a way, burning away the dull fog that had been encroaching more and more each day. 

He hadn't had time to be angry with Mary for very long, when he'd first found out. He'd had Sherlock there, Sherlock recovering, Sherlock near death, Sherlock in _pain_ , urging him towards forgiveness. He'd clamped down on his anger, forced it aside. Now it had come roaring back, and it felt _wonderful._

He rode the tube, no particular destination in mind. He scanned the faces of other passengers, wondered what secrets they hid. 

Mary had seemed to genuinely like Sherlock, before she'd shot him. They'd had a certain camaraderie. 

If she could fake that, what else could she fake? 

But she hadn't faked it, not really, not according to Sherlock. She _had_ liked him. She'd liked him and she'd murdered him anyway, and it was only a flinch, a sentimental _human_ flinch that had spared his life, given him the barest chance to pull through. 

She'd regretted that flinch. She hadn't regretted what she'd done, she'd regretted that she hadn't done it well enough. 

He looked down at his watch, unsurprised to see that he'd been riding aimlessly for more than an hour. He switched at the next station, turned homeward. 

The other passengers were mysteries to him, their secrets well concealed. He wondered what they read on his face, in the clench of his fist, the military-straight line of his shoulders. 

He tried to imagine it, what their lives would be like had he and Sherlock not gone to Magnussen's office that night. Mary, coming home early from her night out, smiling, casual, not a hair out of place. Would she have kissed his cheek and told him a cheerful fiction about what she'd been up to? 

Or—or would she have come in flustered and worried, having received a frightening call from Janine at the A&E? John might have found himself in his own kitchen, making a pot of tea while Mary consoled her shaking friend. Janine with her bloodied temple swathed in tape and gauze, rattled and upset because she'd been _attacked_ , attacked at work, her boss had been killed, and she'd been lucky to escape with her life, really. Janine, stealing glances at her phone and swearing under her breath, muttering _and where the hell is Sherl?_ , apologizing to Mary for interrupting her evening because her shite boyfriend couldn't be bothered to answer her call. 

Mary, smiling, concerned, the picture-perfect caretaker, telling her it was no trouble, no trouble at all. Mary, who'd been the one to bash her in the head in the first place. 

Something low in his stomach turned to lead at the thought. How long? How long would it have gone on before he'd realized something was amiss? 

Maybe he never would have. Maybe he would have gone on living in his bubble, in a fantasy world where everything was perfect. Sherlock, turning his penetrating gaze away out of deference for their happiness. 

Christ, even that—

It had been a fiction, right from the start. Poorly constructed, bright paint splashed over rotting wood. 

Regardless of how it had seemed, they were never going to live the kind of life they'd been pretending to. There was never going to be a brilliant, happy world where he and Mary shook their heads in fond consternation and then called Sherlock to retrieve an unwanted bunny rabbit from their front steps. No teasing blog post about it with a title like _Hare Today, Gone Tomorrow._ He hadn't written a single word on his blog since—well, since before the wedding. And there was a reason for that. He could shut his eyes and block his ears and pretend otherwise for as long as he liked, but that wouldn't alter the truth of it. 

Reality had begun encroaching, a cancer, creeping and consuming, from the moment he and Mary had returned from their holiday. No—no—if he was honest, and if he couldn't be honest with himself, then there was no real point to anything, was there?—the veneer had begun to peel away the very night of his wedding, when he'd watched a smile drain from Sherlock's face in a crowded room. 

He'd looked away from that expression, that sudden and shockingly naked display of vulnerability, of _sadness._ He hadn't been ready to process it, not there, not then. And when he'd looked up again, Sherlock had been gone.

John had had a hard time meeting his own reflected gaze for months now. 

He wondered what Mary saw when she looked at her face in the mirror. 

He got off at his exit, walked home. 

He stood on the pavement, looked at his house. There were lamps on inside, a soft yellow glow through the windows. It looked inviting, warm. 

His breath puffed out in front of him, lungs full of cold, damp London air. 

His house, his home, with its fresh-painted nursery and nice kitchen and bright wall paper. A lovely, well-adorned, comfortable deathtrap. Him, moving like a shell of himself within its walls, numbed, starved for air, a rabbit caught in a collapsed burrow, legs kicking weakly as it gasped its last. 

He thought again about that long, dark hallway. The lie of Leinster Gardens, the empty house and its façade of normalcy. Sherlock, finding time to be bloody _clever_ , even when vulnerable and weakened and hurt. 

Sherlock, with his symbolism. Sherlock, who never did anything without a reason. 

Oh. _Oh._

He'd missed something. Oh, he'd missed something _huge._

"Shit," John said, shutting his eyes. The fight went out of him, his shoulders slumping, exhaustion seeping in. 

He stood for a moment, wavering.

Then he turned away, put his back to that warm inviting lamplight. He walked back towards the tube station, swiftly, urgency increasing with every step until he had broken into a run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work has not been beta-ed or Brit-picked. Feel free to let me know if I've made any completely egregious errors.
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://discordantwords.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

*

It was late, very late, by the time he arrived back at Baker Street. Speedy's was closed up tight, the windows dark.

He stood on the pavement and looked up at the large sitting room windows. The corner lamp was on, the light weak. It pulled at him, that gentle bloom of light.

He unlocked the door and went upstairs. He was shivering a little bit, chilled from the bitter winter air and—something else, a swooping sensation in his chest that made him at once sick and anxious and hopeful.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair, lost in thought. He did not look up as John entered the room.

John stopped in the doorway, stared.

Sherlock had the rabbit on his lap, was absently stroking its lambent fur. The creature was relaxed, docile and unconcerned. One soft ear flopped over Sherlock's forearm. The green glow emanating from the rabbit was muted, calm, almost soothing and really only a little bit strange. He'd surely seen stranger things in this flat over the years.

Sherlock's hands were gentle, so gentle, almost tender as he stroked idly along the rabbit's back. His eyes were distant, the rabbit's eyes half-closed in sleepy contentment.

His mouth had gone dry. He cleared his throat, realizing belatedly that Sherlock had not once glanced in his direction, though surely he had noticed—

Sherlock startled, badly, at the sound, a full body flinch, his eyes flicking back into focus. The rabbit jerked in his arms, hind legs kicking and Sherlock tightened his hands to keep it from leaping away. It fell still, alert, wary, ready to bolt.

"Sorry," John said, feeling awful, as though he had disturbed some fragile peace. He had rarely ever felt like an interloper at 221B, regardless of how long it had been since he'd called the place home. He felt like one now.

Sherlock ignored his apology, stood and deposited the rabbit back into its hutch. He turned back, swept his hand briskly along his clothes to brush away any errant tufts of fur. Silence hung between them, thick and awkward.

"Growing on you, is it then?" John asked finally, with a nervous little half smile. He inclined his head towards the hutch. He was likely projecting, but he thought the rabbit looked a bit affronted at its abrupt dismissal.

"Thought you'd have gone home by now," Sherlock said. His eyes remained on John, laser-focused.

There was nothing to go on, no clue to be read in the blank smooth planes of Sherlock's face.

"Ah, no," John said, still smiling. He thought it might, actually, be more of a grimace at this point. "No, I—no."

Sherlock nodded, sank back down into his own chair, still watching John.

They stared at each other for another long moment. John looked down, realized he was still standing in the doorway, still wearing his coat. He nodded, once, went over to his chair and sat down before he could think about changing his mind. He draped his coat over the armrest.

Sherlock drew in a breath, looked down. "I should apologize for my earlier behavior. What I—"

"That's twice in one day," John interrupted. "With the apologies, I mean. Once for the rabbit, and once for telling me something that I—something that I didn't want to hear, but—"

"John, it was not my intention to—"

"Just—" John cut in again, shaking his head. "I didn't want to hear it, Sherlock, but that doesn't mean that I didn't need to hear it. So don't—don't apologize. I'd like to thank you."

Sherlock's mouth hung open for a split-second longer than necessary. He snapped it shut, blinked. "Oh." He looked up, met John's steady gaze, blinked again. He nodded. "Good, then. Glad that's sorted."

John sighed, gripped the armrests of his chair, squeezed. "It's not sorted."

Sherlock breathed out, the sound surprisingly loud.

The rabbit rustled its bedding in the hutch, moved towards the little water bottle secured to the bars, began to drink. For a moment, the only sounds in the room were the small clicking noises as the bottle bumped up against the cage bars.

"I came back because—" John hesitated, looked down at his hands. He had been in a great rush to get here. Now he felt wrong, strange, off balance. Some part of him, he realized, had been expecting Sherlock to know he was coming back, to be waiting for him. To know why he was here.

Sherlock's mobile, face-up on the desk by the window, buzzed.

They both looked at it. After a slight hesitation, Sherlock swooped over to snatch it up, his face illuminated by the glow from the screen. He made a small noise, sat back down in his chair, looked at John.

"It's Mary," John said. "Isn't it?"

Sherlock pursed his lips. "She's concerned. Thought you'd have been home by now."

"May I?" John asked, looking pointedly at the phone.

Sherlock shrugged, leaned forward to pass it over.

John looked down at the screen.

 

_Is John still shouting at you about that rabbit? Bit much, even for him, don't you think? x_

_Send him home when he's done being dramatic! x_

 

He grit his teeth, looked back up at Sherlock. The phone vibrated in his hand again.

 

_Seriously, Sherlock, it's past one. Is he still with you?_

 

Scowling, John thumbed out a response, staring over at Sherlock, daring him to say something.

"Oh, go ahead," Sherlock said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

 

**Case. May be a while. SH**

 

John held the phone up so that Sherlock could see the screen before he pressed send. Sherlock shrugged again, disinterested, unconcerned.

The phone buzzed again.

 

_Oooh, a juicy one?_

_Actually, don't answer that, my stomach's been a bit dodgy lately. Pregnancy, you know._

_Smooches to John. You boys enjoy yourselves!_

_Won't be much time for this once the baby comes. xo_

 

John set the phone aside without answering. He rubbed his hands along the armrest of his chair again, his thumbs making little circles against the worn fabric.

"Nothing's changed," Sherlock said, finally.

John looked up at him. He stopped fidgeting his hands on the chair. "Everything's changed."

"No," Sherlock said. "Just your perception."

John nodded. He did not drop his gaze. "Then something changed in your perception as well."

Sherlock shifted, just slightly, his face going carefully blank. "What do you mean?"

He waved his hand towards the rabbit, which had abandoned its little water bottle and was now sitting in its straw bedding, watching him. "Your whole—confession. Before. If you meant for Mary and I to carry on in oblivious domestic bliss, you wouldn't have tried to send me vague coded messages via bunny rabbit."

Sherlock raised his brows, and there it was, that minute twitch of his lips that betrayed his otherwise sullen countenance. "Bored," he said.

"Nope," John said. He smiled. It was not an angry smile. It felt strange on his face, foreign, like it didn't belong. "Not buying that."

The tiny, pleased expression that had taken hold on Sherlock's face slowly faded away. He took a breath.

John felt a lurch in his stomach, like the floor just in front of him had dropped away to reveal a gaping chasm. He was right, he'd been right. There was _more._ He teetered on the precipice, there at the edge of exhilaration or horror (and oh, from a distance, they both looked exactly the same, didn't they?) He locked his eyes on Sherlock's grave face.

"I may have been wrong. About certain things."

"Yes," John said. "You have been wrong before, you know. Even if you're not inclined to admit it." He hesitated, because Sherlock had gone so still and serious that it frightened him. "What things, exactly?"

Sherlock grimaced. "Everything I just told you."

"What, about Mary?" John looked over at the silent phone, back at Sherlock, uncomprehending.

The longer he looked at Sherlock's face, at the haunted blankness in his eyes, the more terrified he grew of what lay beyond the edge. This was not what he'd been expecting. He wasn't sure exactly _what_ he'd been expecting, but—

"I debated telling you. I probably—it would be best if I didn't. But—" Sherlock hesitated, just for a moment, before blinking and refocusing. "I can't see any other way. At this point."

"You weren't going to tell me anything," John said, and there was fear there, along with a slow simmering anger, making his words come out as an accusation. "You were surprised that I came back at all."

Sherlock tipped his head, conceding the point. He smiled, a hard, unhappy thing. "True enough. I—well, the colloquial term is 'chickened out'."

"Jesus," John said. He squared his shoulders. "Well, come on, then. Get on with it."

He braced himself for any number of terrible things.

_They're sending me away again,_ was a possibility, of course, one which more than once had sent him bolting upright from a dead sleep. Or even: _the child Mary is carrying is not yours_ , which would be devastating but would simultaneously afford a certain degree of righteousness to his mistrust. Certainly, hearing: _Mary has not stopped taking contracts_ would come as a bit of a shock, but really only for the mobility issues inherent to late-stage pregnancy and not for any real convictions about her reformed moral character. It was Sherlock he was dealing with, so in all fairness he couldn't completely rule out: _I miscalculated and the rabbit is, in fact, quite radioactive. I expect you'll be showing symptoms of radiation poisoning soon. Very sorry. I've procured an iodine pill for you. Best take it now._

Sherlock did not speak, instead gave him an odd considering look. John wondered what thoughts were written in his expression, in the tight clench of his fist, in the nervous jiggle of his left leg.

"Go on," he said, his voice sharper this time. He made a shooing gesture. His palms were sweating.

Sherlock shut his eyes. He looked as though he'd rather be anywhere but where he was.

"Sherlock," John said, near panic now.

"Mary is Moriarty." Sherlock's voice was utterly flat. He opened his eyes, stared across the room, very deliberately did not look at John.

John laughed, once. The sound was loud, harsh, startling. For a fleeting moment, he thought of big-budget action films, of ridiculous special effects sequences, of villains ripping off elaborate masks to reveal the faces of other villains underneath. Villains, all the way down.

"No," he said, and he shook his head. "Moriarty is Moriarty. I've met him, remember? Unless you want to revisit the whole Richard Brook debacle."

"You met James Moriarty," Sherlock said. "The man. Not Moriarty the _name,_ the spider, the organization."

John pursed his lips, took another steadying breath. Moriarty the man, Moriarty the _spider_ , had come scuttling down from his web in the humid air of a deserted indoor swimming complex, his black eyes reflecting the dancing blue light, his singsong voice as cloying as the stink of chlorine. He had smiled and winked and mugged his way through a farce of a court case. He had gone up on the roof with Sherlock, and had—

"I met James Moriarty," John said again. "I know who he was."

"James Moriarty is dead," Sherlock said softly.

"Yeah, that's why I used the past tense," John said. "You told me you saw him die. You don't tend to miss much, Sherlock, so I'm inclined to trust you on that one."

Sherlock shut his eyes, looked inexpressibly miserable for a moment. "I've missed too much."

"Sherlock," John said, his voice soft, his throat dry. "You have to—you have to explain this, because I don't understand. I don't understand what you're trying to say and—"

_—it's scaring me_ , he couldn't quite bring himself to say. But the sight of Sherlock, slumped and defeated and unhappy in his chair _was_ scaring him, badly.

Sherlock's eyes opened. "That night," he said. "That first night. You shot that cabbie to save my life." He stood up in a flurry of sudden motion, whirled away from John, towards the windows. He pressed a hand against the glass pane. "He was the first person to say the name Moriarty to me."

"Yeah," John said, frowning. "Setting off the fascination that threatened to level a good chunk of London. Sherlock, I know."

Sherlock turned back to look at him, his expression half hidden in shadow and difficult to read. He did not walk back towards his chair but instead flung himself onto the sofa and flopped his head over the armrest, making a distressed sound in the back of his throat. "You're looking at it all backwards."

"No," John said, raising his brows. "That would be you. More upside down than backwards, I suppose, but. Lift your head up, will you? You're giving me a sore neck just looking at you."

Sherlock grumbled, fidgeted until he was lying properly on the sofa with his head propped up. "Right before he died, he said the name _Moriarty,_ but he also said it was _more than a man._ " Sherlock turned his head, fixed him with gleaming eyes. "An organization, John."

"Yeah, but you knew that," John said, feeling helplessly adrift, because none of this added up to—to what Sherlock was claiming.

"I knew he _had_ an organization. But I—I wasn't looking at it the right way. I—" Sherlock sat up, ran his fingers through his hair, made another frustrated noise. "I assumed he was the leader of his organization."

"Yeah," John said. "That's, ah, a natural assumption."

"A _stupid_ assumption. Ordinary organizations have leaders. Nothing about Moriarty was ordinary."

"I know," John sighed. And he did know. To Sherlock, Moriarty had been different, unique, _novel._ And regardless of how distressed Sherlock might have been by him in the end, there was no changing that first blush of exhilarating fascination he'd held.

He hated it. He'd hated it then, and he hated it now.

Sherlock's intense stare sharpened somewhat, his eyes narrowing. "Moriarty didn't lead his organization," he said finally. "He _was_ his organization."

He stood up from the sofa, walked back over to the hutch, looked down at the rabbit with its sickly green glow. It was sleeping, now, or seemed to be.

"More than a man," Sherlock said, his voice quiet, hushed. "No one knew him, John. Not really. He worked through proxies. Layers upon layers between him and the criminal activities he facilitated. He maintained deniability, always. He wasn't Richard Brook, but he might as well have been—don't you understand?"

"Not at all," John said.

"He died on that rooftop, John. Granted, so did I, but—" his lip curled up in a miserable parody of a smile.

"No," John said softly. "No. You didn't."

"Neither did Moriarty's organization," Sherlock said, turning away from the hutch and sitting down on the edge of his chair, elbows on his knees, face intent, focused, cast in green. "In the time I was away, I unraveled a lot of it. Most of it, if I'm truly giving myself the credit I deserve, and I don't see why I shouldn't. But what I missed, what I didn't see—" He grimaced, tugged at his hair in frustration. "The _name._ His name still had weight. All along, it was more than him."

"All right, so you didn't eliminate everything. What are you saying, that it's like—a hydra? Cut off one head and another appears?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. Then he frowned. "No. Well—"

"Mary is the new head. _Mary._ That's what you're trying to say?"

"New head, old head, it doesn't matter. I missed it, John. I missed it the first time around because I—" He seemed to shrink into himself, fingers tapping restlessly against his knees. "I didn't look closely. I didn't—well. You know all this already." He lifted his head and it was all there, for a moment, cracked open, fleeting and painful across the contours of his face. Then he shuddered and looked away.

John grit his teeth. "What are you trying to say, Sherlock? Be specific, please. I am an idiot, remember?"

Sherlock took a deep breath, shifted so that he was once more looking at John. "Moriarty isn't a person."

"You keep _saying_ that, but—"

Sherlock stood up, went to his desk, rifled through a stack of papers. He made a frustrated sound, swiped the entire pile onto the floor, stood over it looking down with his chest heaving.

John got to his feet, stepped towards Sherlock, concerned.

"It's all here," Sherlock said, looking up from the papers. The look on his face stopped John in his tracks. "Moriarty. 'The name no one says.' The _organization_. It's existed for far longer than—it didn't start with _our_ Moriarty, the man we both know as James Moriarty."

"His father?" John asked cautiously, dropping into a crouch to look at the files that Sherlock had scattered. Police reports, it looked like. Newspaper clippings. Some of the pages were old, yellowed, brittle. They were not all written in English. Countless crimes, reports, vague links that only Sherlock could see, tenuous invisible threads linking them all together.

Sherlock shrugged. "Might be. He might have just adopted the name. The point is that this—it was never a man assembling an empire. It was an empire wearing the mask of a man."

"What's this got to do with Mary?"

"She's the latest mask."

John tucked the pile of papers back together into a neat stack, stood, set them back on the desk. He turned to look at Sherlock, took in the dark exhausted rings under his eyes, the pale skin. He nodded, went back to his chair, sat down. Breathed.

"So everything you told me. Before."

Sherlock followed John's lead, settling back to his own chair with slow, tired movements, as though dragging a heavy weight behind him. "I can't trust my own conclusions."

"Try," John said. "Because, Sherlock, this one is kind of important."

Sherlock's eyes flashed. "You think I don't know that? That I don't—I looked away deliberately, at first, you know. I knew there was something and I didn't want to know what it was. I _didn't want to know._ And then that became impossible to maintain, due to—well. Certain events."

He did not need to go into detail. John had been married a month. Just a month. Four weeks. And Mary had stood in front of Sherlock and revealed her true self to him with an insincere apology in her mouth and a silenced pistol in her hand.

"And you lied about the extent of it," John said, keeping his voice steady, mild. "I think we've covered that much. And I think I understand why. Although—" he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, clenched his fist, struggled to keep from saying something horrible, something unforgivable in anger. He breathed in, breathed out. Opened his eyes. "I wish you hadn't."

Sherlock dropped his head, nodded. "I—I looked at her, John. After. I took a good long look and I—I failed again, because all I saw was exactly what she wanted me to see."

"She—she wanted you to see that? To see her as an assassin, capable of murdering a friend in cold blood?"

Mary, trembling, damp-eyed, holding out the little drive that contained her entire past. Mary, laying it all out there as if she were ashamed of it. Him, angry to the point of madness, shouting, seeing red, trying to think past the swarm of angry bees in his skull that droned over his every thought beyond the most important one: his wife, his _wife_ had nearly killed his Sherlock.

Had she used that to her advantage? Someone like Mary would have learned to manipulate weak spots, pressure points. Had she lain out an ugly past in order to convince them that was all she'd had to hide? Was that something she was capable of?

He thought he could understand that, in a way. Mary, sensing exposure, cloaking herself in another lie. An unpleasant, repugnant lie. The kind of lie that could only be true.

"I'm not certain, John. But I believe so."

"So she wasn't an assassin."

"No," Sherlock said. "Well. Yes. In a way. Not the way she wanted us to think. But she was very clever, covering her tracks the way she did. She planted a story that painted her in the worst possible light. A story that was almost unforgivable. A story that no one would ever bother digging past."

" _Almost_ unforgivable," John said. There was nothing forgivable about Sherlock flatlining in a surgical bay. He couldn't believe it had taken him this long to realize that.

"Almost," Sherlock agreed, either not noticing or ignoring the dark look on his face. "I am sorry, John. If I'd known—if I'd realized. I never would have advised the course of action I chose. I've—I've struggled with finding a clear way to proceed from here."

John nodded, chewed on the inside of his lip. He wanted to tell Sherlock that his advised course of action was rubbish regardless of the veracity of Mary's assassin story.

But he—he had been out of sorts for weeks, baffled by Sherlock's seeming lack of progress, lack of _interest_ , even, in the Moriarty broadcast that had called him back home. Sherlock, who had not avoided John by any means but who certainly had made no efforts to initiate contact. Sherlock, who had remained friendly with Mary.

Christ. He'd figured out the answer, hadn't he? He'd figured out who was behind the Moriarty mess, but he hadn't liked it. He hadn't wanted to tip his hand until he had some idea of how to extract them from this mess. If there even was a way.

John sighed, scrubbed his fingers through his hair. "It wasn't chance. Was it. Her marrying me."

Sherlock looked up at him. His brow was furrowed. "You're not as angry as I expected. Why aren't you angry?"

John spread his hands wide, let out an unamused huff of laughter. "I'm plenty angry."

"No, not—not like I expected."

"I'm not angry at you," John said, for the second time that night, and for the second time Sherlock looked utterly shocked at that proclamation.

"Oh," Sherlock said, after a long pause.

Sherlock had once looked down from on high, tossed his phone aside and shattered his head against the pavement right before John's eyes. Blood had run in rivers across his pale face, his bright eyes wide and unseeing. It had ruined John, kept him up at night, thinking that the last words he'd said to Sherlock's face had been harsh, that the last time he'd _seen_ Sherlock's face it had been gore-streaked and broken. And then he'd looked up from a fumbling proposal in a fancy restaurant, looked up straight into the face of a ghost. A smirking ghost.

He'd been angry then.

He'd gotten married, married to a woman who was sweet and sharp in equal measure, and he'd come home from holiday to weeks of silence. Silence and unreturned texts, Mr I-Will-Always-Be-There vanished into the ether. He'd found him in a drug den, filthy and unwashed.

He'd been angry then.

He'd rounded a corner in a posh office building to find Sherlock on the ground, a hole punched through his chest, bleeding and so, so still. He'd sat at Sherlock's bedside and had recoiled when Sherlock had opened pale, shocked eyes and whispered _Mary._ He'd rounded a corner and found Sherlock's empty bed, an open window. He'd gone to an empty house, watched as his shiny new life crumpled down around him with each one of Sherlock's measured, careful words.

He'd been angry then, too.

He wasn't angry anymore. He was weary.

Sherlock had taken Mary's bullet and he'd spilled her secrets, all but one, all but the one that might have done the most damage. He'd done it to spare John's marriage, to spare his _feelings_ , because he'd thought that Mary was essential to John's happiness. He'd embraced his own murderer and looked away from her sins, had thrown away his own life, his freedom, to keep her safe. Because she was what John had chosen.

And now to think—even that had been a fiction. It had been lies carefully stacked upon lies, each reveal so shocking it _had_ to be the truth, in fact only another diversion. Mary the nurse wasn't real. Mary the regretful assassin wasn't real. Mary the not-so-regretful assassin wasn't real. He and Sherlock, miserable and aching and chasing their tails in circles while Mary stood and watched.

It was enough to drive anyone mad.

John had been lost in his own thoughts for so long that the sound of Sherlock shifting in his chair startled him, set his heart pounding. He looked up sharply.

Sherlock was watching him, frowning. "I'm fairly sure she was the one to initiate the broadcast," he said. "It was, shall we say, fortuitously timed."

"Why bring you back at all?" John asked. "If she wanted you—" he swallowed, unable to say _dead,_ unable even to think it, not in relation to Sherlock. Not again, not ever again. "—gone, why intervene?"

_Who knows?_ Sherlock had said, there on the tarmac. He'd given John a sad smile, and they'd looked at each other, and John hated, _hated_ that the look that Sherlock gave him really meant _we both know what's going on_ and he hated even more that, unlike most times, he _did_ know what was going on. Sherlock wasn't going away for six months. Sherlock was going off somewhere to die.

For him. For Mary. For the pair of them, soon enough to be three.

"She has something bigger planned," Sherlock said. He sounded certain, but his face was anything but, his brow furrowed, his eyes downcast. "That would be my guess."

"You never guess," John joked weakly, wanting, _needing_ Sherlock to look up.

Sherlock's eyes flicked up to meet his. His lip quirked.

It wasn't enough. It would have to be enough.

"Also, I've no doubt it amuses her. Keeping me close. Being my friend." He offered a sad little half smile at that.

John felt a muscle jump in his jaw. He stood up without a word, went into the kitchen. Poured them each a generous glass of scotch. His hands were shaking.

"Here," he said, offering a glass to Sherlock.

Sherlock took the glass. Their fingers brushed. John did not pull away. Instead he inclined the top of his glass towards Sherlock's, clinked them together.

"What are you going to do?" John asked, finally, when the silence between them had grown too thick.

Sherlock took a swallow of his drink. He shrugged. He looked so terribly, desperately tired.

John followed suit. The scotch burned his throat in a pleasant way. "The baby," he said. He had painted the nursery yellow. Sherlock had chosen the colour. There was a mobile hanging over an empty crib, planets. John had put it there, had stood on a stepladder and placed it with care. He'd picked that one on purpose. It made him smile, when he looked at it. It was one of the only things in his house that made him smile.

"Yes," Sherlock said quietly. "Complicates things."

"Is she—" John took another sip, grimaced. He sat back down in his chair, right on the edge, knees close to Sherlock's. "Is she even mine?"

Sherlock shrugged again, the gesture helpless, uncertain. "I can't be sure. It's been lies wrapped in truths wrapped in lies. We could try to—you could try to run a test. But."

"DNA tests are only as good as the records you keep," John murmured, echoing the ghost of a long ago conversation.

He thought about Mary at the wedding, his bright eyed, mischievous Mary. She'd composed her own waltz, hadn't she, played them both the way that Sherlock played his violin.

"Could she be faking?" he asked, the words out there in the air between them before he could consider snatching them back.

Sherlock raised his brows. "Honestly, John, you're in a much better position to determine that than I am."

John laughed, his whole frame jerking with the surprise of it, the liquor sloshing in the glass. "Yeah, I—sorry."

He caught Sherlock's eye, and then he was smirking too, and then they were both laughing. It felt good to laugh. They used to laugh together all the time, before. Sometimes, John had thought he was the only one capable of coaxing laughter out of Sherlock. Sometimes, John had thought he was the only one who had ever even tried.

"I don't think she's faking," he said finally, sobering. "I don't know why I even—she _is_ pregnant. I haven't—we haven't. Since. But I'm too close. I'm too close for it to be anything but real. We sleep in the same bed. We live in the same house. I know I'm not—I'm not _you_ , but—"

"No one is, really," Sherlock sighed, eyes tilting heavenward. "A cross I alone must bear."

John snorted again, maintained his composure this time. "I'm not _you,_ but even I would have observed something amiss. If. So I don't think that—I don't think so."

"It makes its own sort of sense," Sherlock said. The humour had once again faded from his voice. He had drawn up into himself, looking severe, untouchable. The fearsome spectre that haunted London crime scenes.

"What does?" John asked, not following. He wasn't surprised. He was rarely able to follow Sherlock's leaps. He just had to trust that a path would eventually be illuminated for him.

"I never _guess_ , but—"

John scoffed a little, smiled.

Sherlock didn't quite smile back, but for a moment his face lightened, just a bit, as if he wanted to. One last glimpse of sunlight before an encroaching storm. Then he clouded over again, fixing John with a long level stare. "John, if I had to guess, I'd guess that the baby truly is your daughter. No tricks, no lies. Not this time, not about that."

John nodded, took another sip of his drink. Waited.

"That's why she called me back home."

"Not following," John said, suddenly impatient, unwilling to wait for the gradual, inevitable reveal. "Just—why would that matter? Exactly?"

"Mary wasn't upset," Sherlock said. "When my—plans were changed."

"That's not—but you just told me she was your friend. Or wanted you to believe she was your friend. Or is actually your friend but also wants you dead—I don't know—but why would she be upset? If _liking_ you is her cover, wouldn't it blow her cover if she threw a strop at the airfield when she found out you weren't actually going to die?"

Sherlock smiled, that faint, distant smile that John had grown to loathe. He'd already retreated into his head.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock blinked, came back, looked at John. "She blew her cover by acting pleased. Well. By not acting _dis_ pleased."

"But—"

"Mary, the Mary I thought I knew, the Mary I thought I'd come to understand quite well, would have experienced two distinct trains of thought while on the tarmac." Sherlock's voice came fast, he'd slipped into his deduction mode, and John was grateful. This was familiar territory, well-tread. "The first, the one she'd display on the surface, would be some combination of sadness or unhappiness or regret. Understandable. I am her friend, she is mine, and due in no small part to her actions, I was about to board a plane and leave forever."

John clenched his jaw, looked down at the drink in his hand. He was angry at Mary, yes. But he was mostly angry at himself. He'd stood there. He'd—he'd stood there and seen Sherlock off as if it was. Well. As if it was _all right_ that this was happening. He'd gone over and stood next to Mary and watched the plane disappear into the sky. As if he belonged there. By her side. As if he believed that their outcome was the best possible outcome.

_Meeting you was the best possible thing that could have happened,_ he'd told her once. She'd agreed.

"The second feeling, John, the one she'd have buried under the surface, would have been relief. Not just at having Magnussen dealt with, although certainly that would have factored. But relief, pride, perhaps a certain smugness—"

"What on _earth_ could she have to feel smug about?" John shouted, his drink sloshing up against the rim of his glass. "How could she possibly—"

Sherlock held up a hand, and _he_ looked smug, the bastard, and the look was so overwhelmingly familiar and welcome on his face that John ached for it. "She'd had two problems, and she'd mishandled them both. They'd resolved themselves anyway, in a manner that proved extremely favorable to her. Of course she was smug, John. She'd tried to kill Magnussen, and she'd tried to kill me, and in the end she got what she wanted."

Mary, hugging Sherlock on the tarmac. She'd been smiling. He'd taken it for the kind of nervous reaction that some people had to sad or stressful situations. Putting on a brave face. But Mary—Mary was a veteran of stressful situations, wasn't she? She'd have trained herself out of nervous tics long ago. But she'd still been bloody _smiling._

"So—" Sherlock said, taking a large gulp of his drink and setting his glass down on the table with a clack. "When the plane turned around, she would have been dismayed. And even if she'd hidden it well, I would have seen it, John. Because I've been looking."

"So Mary, if she'd behaved in the way you expected, would have been visibly dismayed that you came home." John's voice was flat. He wondered if Sherlock truly understood the danger beneath that placid tone.

"Obviously, yes." Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "Because I'd still be in the way."

"In the wa—" John sighed. "Hold up. Your survival would have upset Mary, and you were—you were just all right with that? That didn't raise any red flags or anything with you?"

"Do keep up, John, clearly my survival didn't upset Mary at all, because she's not what I thought. I was _wrong._ Shouldn't you be gloating? I seem to recall you enjoyed gloating, on the rare occasions that you found cause to do so."

"I'm keeping up," John said, still very calm, but ramping up. "But I'm—I seem to be getting stuck on the fact that you believed—you, Sherlock Holmes—believed that MY WIFE was the type of person who would, out of ALL OF THE POSSIBLE emotions she could have been feeling at news of your dy—going away—would have settled predominantly on SMUG."

He was breathing hard, now, furious all over again. In exactly the state that Mary would see fit to deal with using her patient voice.

"Smug," John said again, because Sherlock looked utterly taken aback by his outburst. "You looked at Mary, and decided, _yep, smug_ , and still saw fit to leave me in her incomparable company?"

"I—" Sherlock blinked, and John could _see_ him thinking in that rapidfire, half-panicked way he had sometimes, disassembling and reassembling data, forming new conclusions, making pieces fit together. He blinked again, cleared his throat. "I admit that I may have read the situation wrong."

"No kidding."

"But," Sherlock pressed on, shaking his head. "It doesn't _matter._ Because Mary wasn't unhappy that I came back, Mary hardly seemed surprised at all."

John thought about that. Mary had been very calm. On the tarmac, on the plane, she had been calm.

"So Mary being calm, and not… not upset. That made you think that she's Moriarty."

"Yes," Sherlock said, his voice gone low, thoughtful. "Moriarty made a promise, John, do you remember?"

He was helpless, out of his depth. He brought his hands up in a half-shrug, let them drop back to his sides.

"He promised to burn the heart out of me," Sherlock said.

"Yeah, still not following," John said. "Moriarty said that to you. At the pool. Moriarty the man, not Moriarty the—the organization." He could still smell him, sweat and expensive cologne and chlorine. Moriarty's face had twisted up with his words, baring his teeth, hair-trigger madness on display.

"One and the same," he shrugged. "His goal, their goal. It doesn't matter what came first—Moriarty doesn't want me dead. Moriarty wants me _burnt._ Moriarty wants me brought down low, broken, no longer a threat. Moriarty is more than a man and I— _I_ am Moriarty's enemy. If I were to just—disappear, it would be seen as a sign of weakness, a crack in the veneer. Tantamount to admitting defeat." He smiled, hollow, unhappy. "Bad for business."

"So he—she—this entire bloody organization," John said. "They don't just want you dead. They want you destroyed."

"They want an uncontested victory. A very public, uncontested victory. The best kind of advertisement is a job well done, isn't that what they say?" He tipped his head back, breathed in through his nose. "Moriarty is a consulting criminal. He is a public figurehead at this point, and not just in criminal circles. He facilitates crime. Now, that public image has taken a bit of a hit, wouldn't you say? Developing an obsession with a genius detective—"

"A very modest genius detective."

Sherlock's lip curled in a smile. "—sacrificing his own clients to nurture that obsession. He broke his clients' trust, John, he lost it, and he was losing more and more before we ever met on that rooftop. His game, with the robberies, and the trial, it wasn't just an advertisement for what he could do, it was the desperate move of a man who realized he was losing his grip on everything he held dear. He wanted to prove he was still relevant in the criminal sphere. Orchestrating my death in disgrace was his last-ditch effort to make himself look _good,_ to show anyone watching that he was still in control. But he was insane, truly. They had to know that. If he hadn't shot himself on that rooftop, someone else would have done it for him."

"Mary, you think."

"Likely, yes."

"But Moriarty the man is dead," John said. "Like you said, he shot himself on that rooftop. So why continue his game at all? Why _bother_ with all of this?"

"Because Moriarty the organization is tainted," Sherlock said. His eyes were bright on John's, wheels turning in his head, thoughts coming faster and faster the way they often did once they began talking through a problem. "Because they were dealt a crippling blow through James Moriarty's suicide and my own actions in the years subsequent. Because unless they can prove that it was _all_ planned, all along, right from the start, there will just be other, bigger organizations to come along and swallow them up."

"So they're—what—trying to out-clever themselves?"

"Exactly. _Exactly!_ Think of the credibility they regain if it turns out that the past few years weren't a series of unfortunate mistakes, but, in fact, a carefully constructed series of plays in a very long game?"

John sighed, looked down at his hands. "I still think it would have been easier to just shoot you."

"That's why you'll never be a criminal mastermind, John."

"It sounds like a lot more trouble than it's worth, honestly," John said.

Sherlock's lip curved up in a smile again. There was something fleeting and fond in his expression.

"So." John clapped his hands together. "Let me see if I have this right. Mary shot you. You believed that she intended to kill you, but you lied to me and told me it was more of a surgical strike. Now you're telling me—what—that she _didn't_ plan to kill you? That your lie was actually the truth? That she just wanted to see you tie yourself up into knots over this?"

"I—I don't—" Sherlock shook his head, ruffled his hair in frustration. "I realize how this sounds, of course, but she's clever, John, very clever. She knows my methods and she twists them, uses them to her advantage."

"Right, okay," John said, sensing Sherlock's rising distress, backing off from that line of conversation.

"She'd set it all in motion, and all she had to do was call me back and watch me burn." There was something worryingly distant in his voice. He leaned over, picked up his nearly-empty glass from the table, turned it slowly in his hand. "I even lit the match for her."

"What?"

"What colours do you like for the nursery, Sherlock?" His voice had gone high, mocking.

John reeled backwards. "What exactly—what? So—so, somehow, bringing you back here in time to see—to see our baby born is worse than sending you off on a—on a fucking suicide mission? Is that what you're trying to say?"

Sherlock did not speak. The expression that flitted across his face was brief, black as a thundercloud.

How had John ever thought him inexpressive? There was so much to read, there, so much data in those minute twitches. And he, unobservant, only catching little glimpses. What must someone like Mycroft see every time he looked, really looked at his brother?

John took another breath. He was trembling, a little bit, a fine, whole-body shudder, a snared animal with no clear line of escape. His heart thudded against his ribs.

He wasn't certain, with Sherlock he could never be a hundred percent certain. But it seemed that—it seemed as if—as if he were the tool that Moriarty intended to wield to do the damage. As if he had, unknowingly, been allowing himself to be used as a scalpel for years, slicing away at Sherlock's soft underbelly.

Sherlock had not moved, had not spoken, was looking down at the drink in his hand with his eyes narrowed and his lip curled. John set his own drink on the table next to the chair, leaned forward, put his hand on Sherlock's knee. It was warm through the thin fabric of his trousers. Solid.

Sherlock looked down, stared at his hand.

"Seems we've been here before," John said, quietly. His voice was hoarse. They had been drunk, then. Relaxed and bleary and happy. If only he'd—if only.

Sherlock shook his head, shut his eyes. His face was pained. He put his drink back down with slow, exaggerated care. "John."

"That's it, isn't it?" John breathed through his nose, kept himself contained, steady, calm. "That's what you're getting at. Going off alone to die would—it wouldn't have been as bad as coming home and. And."

"Watching you go away, little by little. Playing at happy family," Sherlock said, his voice low, bitter, filled with a profound self-loathing that seemed to spill out into the air between them. He did not open his eyes. "I wanted you to be happy, John. But I didn't necessarily want to be there to—to see it. Better to bow out entirely."

John tightened his fingers instinctively, the warm solid curve of Sherlock's knee under his palm.

"But I—" Sherlock opened his eyes, fixed John with a miserable stare. "I wasn't quite capable. Of that."

John froze, a sinking, horrible feeling in his chest. There was the clarity he'd wanted, the real reason for Sherlock's actions on the plane, the drugs that he'd taken, his bleary-eyed smiling insistence that he'd gone under to solve the mystery of Moriarty, the way he'd brushed off concern. Solving the mystery of Moriarty had been incidental. Going away was too much to bear. Coming home was too much to bear.

_Better to bow out entirely,_ Sherlock had said. He'd said goodbye and gotten on a plane and knowingly, deliberately overdosed. He'd sat and read John's _blog_ as he'd lost consciousness, John's words the last things he'd intended to see.

"I had something of an epiphany," Sherlock said. "Before the plane landed. So." He flapped his hands, halfheartedly gesturing at himself. "Here I am. Surprise."

"Mary is Moriarty," John said. He spoke with a resigned finality. He did not withdraw his hand from Sherlock's knee, did not want to break the connection. He never wanted to break that connection again. If that plane had landed and he'd—if he'd climbed on board that plane and found—if he'd—

"If it's any consolation, I'm fairly sure she doesn't know that I know," Sherlock said. He was smiling again, but it wasn't a happy smile. His fingers searched for his drink and found it, lifting it to his lips. He took a small sip. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down. He looked at the glass, swirled it, set it back down.

A strangled sound forced itself out of John's throat and he leaned forward, still gripping Sherlock's knee. His knuckles had started to go white. He relaxed his hand, flexed his fingers.

"I'm sorry," he said, breathing hard. Black spots danced in front of his eyes. It hadn't hit home, before, even when he'd been standing on the plane looking at the list that Sherlock had scrawled out for his brother. Sherlock was indestructible. Sherlock faked his death for heroic reasons. Sherlock did not quietly curl up to take his own life because he—because he was _lonely_ or, or, because he was _scared._ "Sherlock, I'm so—"

Sherlock watched him curiously, half-frozen up, his eyes unnaturally bright in the dim green rabbit glow. "Why would you be sorry?"

"I've been horrible to you," John's voice was choked. His eyes were stinging again. He reached up with his free hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. "You could have died, Sherlock. You might have—and it would have been my fault. My fault."

_I love you,_ he wanted to say, but he choked on the words. _I love you and I've loved you for years and I should have told you, I should have told you before you jumped and I should have told you when you came back and I should have told you every day since then._

John opened his mouth, wanting to force the words out, wanting to force out any words at all, but the only thing that came out was a garbled half-sob.

Sherlock looked utterly flabbergasted, a look that John might have savored under other circumstances. Not now. Now it only looked wrong, an alien vulnerability that he could not possibly afford to reveal, not now, not ever, not when there were so many who wished to do him harm.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but John stood up in a clumsy lurch, one knee pressing against the front of Sherlock's chair, legs bumping together. His arms went up around Sherlock's shoulders, tugging him forward, sucking in great heaving breaths against his neck.

Sherlock's back went rigid, muscles stiff and tense. He made a startled sound and John felt his arms come up, not quite an embrace but more of a patting, a hesitant _there-there_ motion.

"Sherlock," John said, his mouth close to Sherlock's ear. He could feel the way his friend's heart was pounding, thundering rabbit-quick against his ribs, his rapid shallow respiration. "I might have this wrong. I don't—I don't think I do. But I might. You—" He breathed in, out, inhaling Sherlock's scent, familiar, comfortable. "Seeing Mary and I happy. With our daughter. It—that's not the sort of thing that would _burn_ you. If we were just—if you didn't—"

Sherlock made a miserable sound, a broken sound, and all of the tension went of him in a rush. Like he was giving up. He tipped forward, boneless in John's arms, his own settling around John's waist, hands tentatively curling at the small of his back.

"It's nothing I planned, I assure you," Sherlock said, his voice muffled, sad, and still so, so bitter. "I didn't want—I didn't intend—"

"Sherlock," John said, shutting his eyes. "Were you just—never going to say a word?"

Sherlock's shoulders rose and fell, a helpless little shrug, and John wanted to pull him closer, wanted to protect him, to hold him until they breathed as one, until all of the horrible constriction around his chest fell away.

Sherlock, who had often made his case for emotions as _weakness,_ as a disadvantage of the worst kind. Proven right, again and again, as his enemies took note of his affections, mapped out all of his pressure points, used them against him.

He thought about Sherlock, standing there in a stupid purloined bowtie, with a stupid drawn on mustache, making a stupid joke while his eyes remained wide and locked on John's. He'd been so stunned by the sight of him, so hurt, so—so—Christ, even now the memory stung.

"That night you came back," John said, when he felt capable of speaking again. "If I had just. If I had gotten up and gone with you. What—"

Sherlock shrugged again, breathed out a shaky little exhale. He did not move away, did not seem to mind John's humid breath against his neck. "She would have had to change tactics, I suppose. Pointless to speculate now."

"I wanted you back," John said. "I wanted you to come back. There wasn't a day while you were gone that I didn't want that."

"I know," Sherlock said.

"No," John said, shaking his head. "You don't." And before he could change his mind, before he could talk himself out of it, he drew back, tilted Sherlock's head towards him, and kissed him.

Sherlock froze entirely for a split second, but before John could even work up a proper panic he had surged forward into the kiss, soft lips yielding under his, the hands that had settled shyly at his back suddenly coming alive, cupping his cheeks, running long fingers through his hair.

John brought one hand up to tangle in Sherlock's hair, pulling him closer, noses bumping together as he sought a better angle. Sherlock made a sound that was unlike anything he'd ever heard before, a strangled half-sob-half-groan, and pulled away, breathing hard. A flush had spread across his cheeks and his eyes had gone wide and dark.

"Not because you're sorry," Sherlock said, his voice high, breathless. He looked down at John's lips, looked away again, swallowing nervously. "Right? Not because you're sorry?"

It took John a moment to comprehend, but he shook his head, smoothing one hand through Sherlock's curls in a way he hoped was soothing, his other hand cradling the side of Sherlock's face. His thumb moved in little circles against Sherlock's cheek, caressing the hard ridge of bone there.

"Of course not, you idiot," John said, his breath puffing against Sherlock's lips, and he almost laughed. Could have laughed, really, had Sherlock not looked so distraught, strung up in a perfect balance between want and despair. "I love you. I've loved you for years."

They were kissing again before John had even finished getting the words out, and had he _really_ spent years worrying and prevaricating over saying them?

Sherlock made an impatient sound, hands scrabbling around the bottom of John's jumper. John breathed a laugh against his lips, pulled back a bit to let him tug the offending garment up over his head. When he'd thrown it clear, he looked back down. Sherlock's face had gone quite red, his lips swollen. He reached up and laid a trembling hand against John's bare chest, right over his thundering heart.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. "I should have—I should have—"

John shook his head, kissed him, a firm, hard press of his lips. He pulled back slightly. "Don't. We both—we can go mad, dwelling on regrets. Just. Is this—" he kissed him again, pressed their foreheads together. "Is this what you want?"

"John," Sherlock groaned, his voice impatient and demanding and utterly, totally wrecked. "Don't be stupid. You're being stupid."

John giggled, he _giggled_ , helplessly pressed his face against Sherlock's sweat-damp, sweet-smelling neck. Sherlock giggled back, the sound rumbling up out of his chest, shaking them both. John's knees protested, reminding him that he was far too old to be necking in an armchair.

"Stupid," John said, when his giggles had receded somewhat. "Is twisting ourselves up in this bloody chair when you've got a perfectly serviceable bed down the hall."

"Genius," Sherlock said, twisting his neck to lick at John's collarbone. "You're a genius. Well." He paused, looked up.

"Do not finish that sentence," John said, standing, his knees popping unpleasantly. He offered a hand and Sherlock took it, springing to his feet with an unfair grace. For a fleeting moment the air between them felt heavy, awkward, but then Sherlock took a stumbling step forward and nudged John with his hip.

John snorted, curved his hands around Sherlock's slim waist, fingers drumming against his hipbones. They stumble-stepped towards the bedroom together, John lurching backwards, Sherlock steering. They bumped up against the kitchen table and John swore, loudly. Sherlock made a distressed sound and stooped to kiss him again and then they were both laughing, pulling each other close, and _God_ it wasn't close enough, it couldn't possibly be close enough.

John pulled away from the table, hooked a finger in Sherlock's belt loop, jerked him forward down the hall. Sherlock went along willingly, still laughing. They hit the bed at a decent clip, John tipping backwards against Sherlock's absurdly soft bedding, Sherlock crashing down on top of him with none of his signature grace. He was shaking, John realized, his entire body lightly vibrating

"Is this—" he started.

"Obviously," Sherlock snapped, and then he froze, forehead resting against John's. "Obviously," he said again, gentler this time.

"Okay," John said, smoothing his hands down Sherlock's back. "Okay."

"What you said before," Sherlock said, looking at him with eyes that had gone half-lidded and a bit dazed. "You know that I—obviously that I love you."

John thought he might split open, might crack apart right there in the dim light of Sherlock's bedroom. "Obviously," he said, smiling, beaming, really, because it _was_ obvious, wasn't it? How the hell hadn't he seen this before?

"I have a theoretical understanding of this," Sherlock said, his voice matter-of-fact. He was fidgeting, eyes flitting to John's face and then darting away, bashful almost. "It's quite thorough. But. I am somewhat lacking in—practical experience. If that matters."

"What?" John said, hazy, eyes roaming over Sherlock's face, his flushed cheeks, his kiss-swollen lips, his rumpled hair. Then his brain caught up. "Oh. _Oh._ Right." He laughed once, nervously, then shook his head. "Doesn't matter, really. It's just you and me here."

"I should hope so," Sherlock said, haughty, lip quirking up in a grin, and it was almost too much, the sudden bubbling, bursting joy the sight of that little smile brought him.

He fumbled at the buttons of Sherlock's shirt, and then fell back against the pillows with an amused smirk when, halfway through, Sherlock let out an impatient groan and swatted his hands away to do the job more efficiently himself.

Once he'd struggled free of his shirt, Sherlock fell forward against John. For a moment they jostled for position, far too many elbows and knees, noses bumping. Sherlock's shoulders went rigid with tension, his breaths coming in fast little huffs. Then John's arms came up around Sherlock's waist, stroking soothing hands down the marred skin of his back, and Sherlock relaxed, dropping his head. His curls tickled along the bare skin of John's chest. They breathed together, gentle inhales, exhales. John shut his eyes, felt Sherlock's heart beating against his.

After a moment, Sherlock lifted his head. His lips formed a brief, embarrassed smile. John kissed it away.

"Off," Sherlock said. His voice was low, hoarse. He tugged once at the waistband of John's trousers.

John laughed, rolled to the side, finished undressing himself. He could feel Sherlock moving behind him, doing the same, heard the rustle of clothing as Sherlock's trousers hit the floor.

He rolled back, reaching for him, and this time there was no awkwardness as they slid back together, skin against skin. John shut his eyes against the tidal pull of sensation and then drew them back open, captivated by the sight of Sherlock, his head thrown back, lip caught between his teeth.

John tipped forward, cradled Sherlock's face in his hands and kissed him, kissed him, kissed him, tried to show him with actions what his imprecise words hadn't made clear.

*

They dozed, after. Not quite sleeping, but lying entangled and drowsy, eyes closed, just breathing shared air.

When John sat up and made to reach for his clothes, Sherlock grumbled and pulled him back down. John turned on his side to face him, reached out and traced the curve of his nose with a fingertip.

Sherlock opened his eyes, pale and near colourless in the darkness. He studied John for a quiet moment, not speaking, his expression betraying nothing. Then a grin split his face, a real grin, a genuine one, one that took years off of his face and made him look heartbreakingly young.

He was grinning back, he realized belatedly. He couldn't help it. How could anyone do anything else when faced with such a thing?

Sherlock's smile slowly faded away. He sighed, shut his eyes, opened them again. "I fear this further complicates things."

John looked at him, at that weary, drained expression that was once more taking hold. He was withdrawing, folding inward. It was painful to see.

"No," John said, firm. "No, this—this isn't a complication. This is _incentive._ Something to fight for, yeah?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed.

"I am in love with you, you absolute moron. If, after all of this, you still don't believe—"

"Oh," Sherlock said, and it came out sort of breathless. Like a surprise. Like a revelation. His lips lifted up into a smile again, as if he couldn't quite help himself.

"Look," John said, propping himself up on one arm, staring down intently. "Sherlock, at best, at absolute _best,_ my wife is an amoral sociopath who had no qualms about murdering her friend because he got in her way. At worst, and—" he laughed, an angry little sound, "—and you make a pretty convincing case for this, I'll admit. At worst, she's some kind of perverse criminal mastermind who has spent years manipulating us into a position where she can use your—your affection for me against you like some kind of weapon."

Sherlock was watching him, unblinking, those pale eyes wide.

"So this—" John waved his hand between them, wanting to be clear, _needing_ to be clear. "Isn't a complication. Because for her to—to burn you, that way, she has to count on me either not knowing or not caring how you feel, yeah?"

"Mm," Sherlock agreed. "You are rather unobservant."

"And you're still a dick even after you've been shagged, that's good to know." John smiled, rolling his eyes before growing serious once more. "Her plan won't work now. It can't. And we're going to work this out, you and me. We're going to figure this out together. And that's how it's going to be, all right? You and me. Together."

"All right," Sherlock said quietly. "Yes. All right."

"Good," John said. "But that means—you can't _leave,_ Sherlock. No more dying. No more grand gestures or big sacrifices. All right? I couldn't—I can't do that again. I—" He took a shuddering breath, pressed his hand against his mouth.

He thought of Sherlock, that beautiful head of his lolling against the butter-soft leather of his seat. His eyes fluttering open, uncomprehending, taking too long, far too long, to bring his brain back online. Sherlock, who had never intended to live to see his destination.

Sherlock didn't speak, but seemed to read the cause of his distress in his body language. He curled forward, tipping his head against John's, pressing their foreheads together. One hand snaked around John's waist, shyly, as if he couldn't quite fathom having permission to be there. They breathed together, chests rising and falling in time.

*

"You'll have to go home," Sherlock said, much later. The sun was just beginning to threaten over the horizon, the shadows slowly easing their grip on the far corners of the room.

"I am home," John said drowsily, burrowing his face into the pillow.

"No, you—" Sherlock paused. When he began again, his voice was stiff, as though he were speaking with great care. "I am glad, that you still think of this as home. You should know that I—that I consider it your home as well. But that's not what meant."

"I know what you meant. Don't want to go back," he mumbled. "We're on a case, remember?"

"That excuse bought you a few hours at best."

"Mmph. A few hours to spend sleeping."

"A few hours you _spent_ sleeping," Sherlock corrected. He hesitated. "I have ideas—"

"Of course you have ideas, you're Sherlock Holmes. Go to sleep."

Sherlock made a noise half-caught between amusement and frustration. "John. I have ideas on how to proceed. But I can't—we can't—tip our hand just yet. She can't suspect anything is amiss."

John sighed, opened his eyes. Sherlock was looking down at him, his face very serious. He was sitting up, his back propped against the headboard, his phone in his hand. He looked wide awake, like he'd been awake for hours, but had not dressed. His hair was a wreck, sticking up in odd directions, the effect utterly disarming. "All right."

He hesitated, wanting to reach out, unsure what was expected of him, what would be welcome. Sherlock watched him curiously, but did not say anything, and the moment stretched on a bit too long.

He rolled away, slipped out of the bed, looked for his clothes. He picked his trousers up off the ground, turned back towards the bed. Sherlock had gotten up as well, was reaching for his dressing gown and pyjama pants.

Their eyes met, and the air felt oddly charged, uncomfortable between them.

They dressed quietly, went back out into the sitting room. All was still and quiet but for the distant drip of a faucet, the rustle of the rabbit in its cage.

John found his jumper on the floor in the sitting room, crumpled where Sherlock had tossed it. He picked it up, tugged it on.

"What are you going to do with Bluebell there?" he asked, wanting to shatter the grim, funereal weight of all that silence. He inclined his head towards the rabbit. He frowned, suddenly not sure he wanted to know.

Sherlock made a face. "Not whatever you're thinking, John."

John let his eyes slip shut, chagrined. He thought of Sherlock in his chair with the rabbit on his lap, stroking its soft fur with gentle hands. "Sorry, no. I know." He looked up, made sure that Sherlock was looking at him. "I know that, Sherlock."

"Mm," Sherlock said without rancor. "I was thinking I might keep him, actually. Not _right there,_ obviously, I'd like to use the fireplace again. But here, in the flat."

"I didn't figure you for the pet type," John said. He paused, considered. "But, then again, it _is_ a glowing rabbit. Fitting, really. In a way."

Sherlock did not speak. There was an odd, faraway look in his eyes.

"Not Bluebell," he said after a long moment. "You already know what became of Kirsty Stapleton's unfortunate pet. As you've been stressing to me over the entire course of the evening, you were there."

"What's his name, then?"

Sherlock smiled. It was a furtive smile, a quick curl of the lip, as though remembering some private joke. "Bigwig."

The name seemed distantly familiar, and John thought about it. It came to him, at last. "You're telling me you haven't deleted children's literature?"

Sherlock's lips quirked up once more. He kept his gaze fixed on the rabbit. "Bigwig was Captain of their Owsla. Strong. Stubborn. Loyal."

Warmth spread through John's chest. He looked down at the ground, smiled.

"You've got a plan, then?" He asked finally.

Sherlock tipped his head back and forth. "The start of one. This is going to be delicate. One wrong move and—"

"We'll burn, yeah. Got that."

Sherlock glanced over at him, his brow furrowed.

"I did say _we,_ " John said. "There's nothing that could burn you that wouldn't also burn me at this point. You know that, right?" He let out another unamused huff of air. "It was true before we—before. Even then."

Sherlock blinked at him, and then shut his eyes, favored him with a slow sweet smile. He took a deep breath. "It's not just us, you know," he said finally, his eyes fluttering back open. "Your daughter."

John breathed in through his nose, nodded. He thought again of the cheery little nursery, its yellow walls. The mobile over the crib, little painted planets rotating slowly around the sun. There was a brief, wild thought of his former room upstairs, here at Baker Street, painted in that same cheerful yellow. That little crib, tucked against the wall across from the window. That mobile, the one he'd bought while thinking of Sherlock, turning gently overhead. And wouldn't that be—wouldn't that be something?

"I—" Sherlock said, and he hesitated, looked down. Then he cleared his throat, lifted his head. "Please know, John, that I will do whatever it takes to ensure that she comes to no harm. Regardless of—well. Regardless of how events transpire with Mary."

"I know," John said. And he did. He _did._

Sherlock had stood up in front of a crowd of people at his wedding, wide-eyed and nervous, desperately out of his depth but he'd done it anyway. He'd done it because John had asked him to. He'd made a vow and he'd stuck by it, had helped Mary in spite of believing, truly believing, that she'd intended to murder him. He had pulled off miracle after miracle after miracle, not because he was a genius (although he was), not because he was a showoff (although he was), but because he _loved._

And John refused to think of that as a weakness.

"Sherlock," John said, meeting his eyes. He said again, "I know."

Sherlock looked away, focusing once more on the rabbit, bathed in its gentle green glow.

"Be cunning, and full of tricks, and your people will never be destroyed," he murmured.

"Well," John said, stepping up next to him, shoulder-to-shoulder. "I don't know anyone more cunning or full of tricks than you. So."

"This will be dangerous," Sherlock said, tilting his head to look at John.

"Yeah, got that." John nodded. "It usually is."

Sherlock made a soft noise of assent. They stood quietly next to each other, arms brushing. John hesitated, then reached out and twined his fingers with Sherlock's.

Sherlock startled, twitching a bit. His hand slackened and then tightened abruptly, squeezing back.

"Into battle, then," Sherlock said.

"Into battle," John agreed. He did not let go of Sherlock's hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line that Sherlock quotes at the end of the story comes from _Watership Down_ by Richard Adams:  
>  "All the world will be your enemy, Prince with a Thousand Enemies, and whenever they catch you, they will kill you. But first they must catch you, digger, listener, runner, prince with the swift warning. Be cunning, and full of tricks, and your people will never be destroyed." 
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading! Feel free to stop by and say hi on [Tumblr](http://discordantwords.tumblr.com).


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